


Cry Havoc

by tumbleweed (zel), zel



Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Enclave, F/M, Gen, Legion - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 84,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zel/pseuds/tumbleweed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zel/pseuds/zel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the conqueror of 86 tribes, the Son of Mars, chosen by the gods to lead man out of the ashes of the Old World.</p><p>As the numbers swelled beneath the banners of the Legion, Caesar ordered the killing of his inner circle, men he could no longer trust, not with command, not with his old name or the true history he perverted.</p><p>Now he stands in the lengthening shadow of the Monster of the East, the Legate Lanius, who never read of Julius or Augustus in the old books, who never had any use for the written word at all. The Butcher's vision of the future is a grim hell he does not recognize, but Caesar has left no one alive that remembers another time.. or their original purpose.</p><p>Now his strength fails him and he needs an heir to restore the Legion's glory. The gods fail to grant him a child, and the sky burns with signs and portents. Fortuna gives her Wheel a spin, and only the Khan god Coyote knows where it lands. The remnants of the Enclave offer up an unlikely alliance, and the sibyl shrieks of the coming of the God of War, who walks the desert in the form of a First Recon man.</p><p>Only Vulpes Inculta is clever enough to find a way out, but the secrets he discovers could take a man's soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His father had named him Two Fox Kits, a milk name, a name discovered on the third day after his birth when the wise woman pronounced that the child would live. His father was a scout, lean and ropey, and he had a vague memory of long legs he used to cling to. The man died like all the others the night the Flesh People burned their encampment. Two Fox Kits hid where he was told to, and in helpless silence he watched as they raped his mother, fought her down, raped her again, and when she had resisted more than their intoxicated state could tolerate, they cut her throat and continued once the scratching hands and kicking legs had lost their animation.

Afterwards they cut slices off the dead, charred it over fire, and ate with juices running down their chins. Blood. Globules of fat. The greasy lines cleaned their dirty faces to some degree. The bearded ones had pieces caught in their wiry hairs. Through the night they sang and dance, shot up, laughed, and did what they wanted because they had all the guns. At some point one of the stinking cannibals staggered away for a piss and Two Fox Kits was discovered.

Although a male child, he was permitted to live in servitude for the next couple of months. The Flesh People had no organized way to go about things, and they were too lazy and too sick with their drugs to do much for themselves. Two Fox Kits was to carry water and burn meat for the others. The captives dwindled. There was some idea that Two Fox Kits would be fattened up by the time he grew too big and too strong and outlived his usefulness, but no matter how hard they force-fed him, he remained a scrawny boy all knees and elbows, all huge sad eyes.

Two Fox Kits used to wonder what they had done to call down the wrath of their gods. He refused to believe that they failed to protect him. It must have been his fault. His weakness disappointed them.

He used to have many ideas about what he would do once the Flesh People were too tired to harm anyone but themselves. Once they were blacked out beside their cookfires or passed-out hobbled with filthy trousers round their ankles. He was too afraid to try. He had ideas, but nothing came of them. He stole one of their weapons, wrapped it in oilcloth, and hid it in a hole by the latrine ditch used by the other slaves. Every night he would uncover it and look at it, but he could not make himself do anything but look. He was again a child paralyzed by fear, again hidden in the grass, again watching. But some day.. some day..

When the Flesh People would pick out a captive, the others grabbed the arm of the condemned and begged them to bear a message back to the gods when they were dead. It was good to be chosen and the face of the One would go transfixed with beautiful relief, and they would nod and stream tears and take all the messages of the living to the lucky dead, messages to mothers and fathers, wives and husbands. ‘Tell my wife I will see her again in the land that is green, where the water is good to drink, where men are brothers.' And Two Fox Kits tugged on the rags of the One-Who-Was-Picked, and whispered, ‘Tell the gods I will be strong, and they will see.’

That night he went to uncover the weapon.

That night, in new moon darkness, the gods sent their reply.

He found himself staring into the eyes of the Messenger. There was no doubt the gods had sent it from the Land Beyond. It was a beast unlike any that he had seen before, a beast neither living nor dead.

It regarded him for a long moment with eyes that pulsed with a soft glow. It tested the air with its nose. Then an ear pricked and it bounded away on metal legs.

The Flesh People were drunk, high, and bloated with the meat of their grisly feast, but even if they had been at their prime there was nothing they could have done. The Messenger barked and howled and flashed through the camp like a knife. Bullets skipped off it. The Big Man of the Flesh People came tottering out with his belly hanging over his naked thighs, blinking, swearing, and his moment was decided the instant the Beast saw the headdress of his office.

Two Fox Kits opened his mouth in a silent cry of fury. This was his time. He drew out the Chewing Weapon and fired staccato bursts into the Flesh People, and nothing looked so wonderful in all the world than the red-black punctures that went across their greasy, flabby bodies. The Gods were on his side-- and he would learn later that they were the Gods of the Legion.

Once the chaos had reached the level desired by the centurion, he had the horn sounded that brought his men out of their position.

The centuria went into the camp and dispatched every cannibal that they encountered, every last one.

The Chewing Weapon would fight no more, and Two Fox Kits trembled amidst the carnage when the delirium of revenge had spent itself. There was nothing left but to run, and he did not go far, weak with shock and hunger. So he hid, and stayed quiet while the Red Men staunched fires and heaped bodies. The Iron Line warrior cut the astonished captives free, to what purpose Two Fox Kits could not know yet.

It was not long before the Beast discovered him. The Beast and its Master, a frightening warrior with armor that flashed in the new morning light. His head was the head of a beast, a beast like the Beast, all in gold.

Two Fox Kits stood grimly and faced the warrior with the red crest. He was a boy but he would go like a man.

He pointed the Weapon, clicked it, and screamed a sound no louder than a whisper.

The Gold Beast Head regarded him a long moment. Then a hand came up to adjust the visor. Beneath it was a clean shaven man with a lifted eyebrow.

Then the Beast bounded up to lick the boy's face.

Later, Two Fox Kits huddled in the corner of a red tent, hugging his knees, glowering in deep suspicion at the Red Man who was on hands and knees, trying to see if he could get the boy to accept some bread and olives. The Beast loved it all and licked an olive clean off the plate. The Red Man made a production of being stern with the Beast, who dutifully re-slurped the olive back where it belonged. The Red Man made a funny face, pinched the slobbery olive, and fed it back to the Beast who looked on him with stupid adoration.

Later, betrayed by his stomach, Two Fox Kits ate the bread, ate the olives, drank clean water, and slept safe and unbothered against the warm flank of the Beast. He even awoke the next morning, alive, warm from a doggy body and the centurion's red cloak.

Later, he learned that the Red Men were chosen by the Gods to lead humanity back to civilization, the true civilization. He learned that the Beast was a dog, a loyal animal who had laid down his life in defense of his people. Decimus told him gently not to be afraid of the Beast, that the Gods deemed him worthy and brought him back from the dead, and so he returned with half his shattered body made new in metal. He was a good dog, as were the men of his centuria, the Hounds of Caesar. He winked at the boy and ruffled his hair.

Two Fox Kits and the remnants of his tribe were brought out of the darkness of ignorance and superstition by the light of the gods, the torch of Mars. They were lifted up from captivity and malnourishment by the hand of Caesar. The Legion brought all tribes into itself and made them stronger. It was the shield that back the raiders, the fiends, the raving predators. It was the spear that killed them. It was the sole voice of reason that spoke in the wilderness and gave Law back to Man, who had ruined the world with corruption and depravity.

Thinking of his mother's bled-out body, thinking of the meaningless fucking and shooting and stink and superstition, thinking of the fingerbones and teeth that showed up in the raiders' defecation, Two Fox Kits knew the time of Two Fox Kits was finished, that that had been a boy's name, a milk name, and so he became a man.

He would never be as strong as some of the others. He would never fight like Lanius. But he had a keen mind and quick wit. He knew what had to be done. He lived to serve the Legion. He loved the Legion and he loved Caesar, the Son of Mars, their god, their king, their father.

The morning he returns to Fortification Hill with his news, an eagle is seen in the western skies. To the men it is an omen, and many drift in their activities to look above. An instructor grabs a child by the shoulder and points to the bird. That bird is the symbol on our standards, the instructor tells the boy that gasped for breath. That bird is the Legion, and you will be a full legionary when you reach such heights. A blacksmith points with a newly sharpened sword, and he says, see that the eagle flies westward into the land of the Profligate. So too will the eagle of the Legion fly west to the sea.

Vulpes Inculta pauses a moment in his climb, and he looks also. The black lenses shield his eyes from the morning sun, and they hide the sudden twinge of his emotions. There is a fullness in his heart sometimes, a fullness he can not bear. The might of the Legion fills him with the same mystery and awe that it had years ago, a life ago. He brings news of the enemy and a most curious proposition. It is his wish that it will please his lord.

...

He has conquered eighty six tribes.

He has brought light to a world in darkness.

He is favored by the gods and fortune.

He alone can destroy the remnants of a corrupt world and wake humanity from its nightmare.

The Son of Mars sits on his throne.

His faithful praetorians stand by, each adorned with armor both lightweight and lavishly detailed. It befits their style of combat as well as their station, these hand-picked men. Each of them would die a to defend their leader, their king, their god and father. Each of them lives for the glory of that day.

Caesar knows this. He favors them with a faint smile as he permits the morning report.

There are envoys and supplicants, a tribal chieftain come on hands and knees to offer his allegiance, a Great Khan runner with hair spiked like bird wings, and two decani with some dispute.

There are also women present. Caesar allows them to be seen. It is his whim to permit the envoys to see the beauties of so many conquered tribes, clean, well-kept, with coiffed hair and fine garments. He has possessed them all and in all ways. These are but the merest taste of his collection.

There is another in a diaphanous gown that hides little of her dusky body. She is fitted with a silver armband hammered out by long-dead natives of Old Arizona, and it gleams in the light when she sways her arms. She is to wear a mask in the presence of others, as the Legate wears a mask, and it a mask of a soulful female face with dark eyes behind it. Her face is not so beautiful as the others, not after what has happened.

She is here to sing, and she does, spinning out a soft slow melody to the tune of a slave’s violin. Not enough to distract, but to amaze the Profligates at the comforts and delights of civilization.

Vulpes Inculta is here now also. Caesar sees his slim shadow in the back, patient and humble.

The tribal chieftain is talking, chattering on in his irritating dialect. There is a part of Caesar’s mind that takes in the scattered snatches of half a dozen variants of Spanish and English. Knits them together. He used to dedicate entire journals to the changing dialects of the wasteland. Another time. Another life.

The chieftain has brought his people to join the strength of the Legion, as a river runs to sea.

Caesar prefers it this way. He makes a show of his consideration, looking at his hands, looking at the tent walls, shifting on his great horned throne to set his chin upon his fist. He motions for an attendant to bring him bites to eat. He commands Polyhymnia to sing again.

The chieftain watches his face with the anguish of not knowing.

At last, Caesar gives a nod and looks away. The chief cries out and goes to kiss his hand, but the praetorians are on him in a heartbeat. He allows them to get in a good blow before he stays them. No one is permitted to touch Caesar without his approval. Not even his beauties, who clamor in jealousy for his attention.

The Son of Mars declares that the tribe will come to the Legion and be trained as legionaries. They will be given new wives of their own to do with as they please.

It is time now for the Great Khan envoy to speak. He has been staring in wonder at Caesar's women for nearly the entire time, that is, until Lucius gave him his only warning.

The Great Khan envoy was allowed to see the chieftain's submission and hear all the bounties of the Legion. The Great Khans still think that they will be allowed to rule the Mojave, but once their usefulness has ended, they too will wear the red. It is best to get them thinking of that idea.

The Great Khan envoy is otherwise a waste of time. Nothing new, half commitment, vague promises, and a strange hairstyle.

Next the two decani. There is a dispute among them that no one can untangle. They have brought their quarrel before Caesar, and submit humbly to his excellent judgment.

The Son of Mars claps his hands and speaks to Lucius. He takes also a bit of a snack from a plate, and chews slowly while the two decani are left to decipher his response.

No weapons are permitted into Caesar's tent, but he has made an exception.

Lucius returns with two machetes and gives one to each astonished officer.

Caesar smiles and makes himself comfortable upon his throne.

The Son of Mars commands:

"Begin.”

...

Vulpes Inculta steps nimbly over the bodies of both decani. A little hop in his step. He avoids the rapidly spreading pool of blood completely, while the praetorians smirk and grimace and figure out among themselves who will drag the corpses out. Caesar smiles and thinks they have something to learn from quick young Fox.

“Well done, my lord," Vulpes says. He thumps a salute and then takes a knee. Caesar is amused by the man's composure, his bearing. The women are aflutter with whispers and gasps. Polyhymnia has shrank back in fear. The fiddle-player hugs his instrument.

Caesar lets him have an indulgent smile. “Vulpes Inculta, you're a smart boy. Who do you think won?”

“Domine, it is difficult to say. Publius earned first blood, but Junius of Scottsdale stood on his feet the longest.”

Caesar leaned up to look a little, and then arched an eyebrow. “Yet Publius Minor still holds his machete, even in death. What to do?”

“Perhaps my lord will allow Scipio to select the winner.”

There is a dog vigorously lapping up blood from the body with the severed hand. Lucius struggles to shoo him and stop him, trying to lug the corpse, but even after everything, Lucius has never learned you can't stop a dog from getting into anything.

Caesar laughs. “Vulpes Inculta.. Who would know you had a sense of humor? Always a surprise.”

“Domine.”

The Son of Mars is bored of the women now and motions for them to be taken back where they belong. Except Polyhymnia. She will stay in his tent now that her attitude has improved. "What news do you have for me, Vulpes Inculta?”

The frumentarius reports on the status of Camp Golf and Forlorn Hope. His men are tallying a list of supplies and equipment known to be at the disposal of the NCR, as well as tracking the movement of the First Recon units. There is also a man who has come into contact with the frumentarii, a man with a most curious proposal.

Vulpes Inculta hesitates to tell him. The idea may be difficult for him to grasp. “Orion Moreno claims to be a warrior from the Old World People. He claims to have access to weapons and armor far beyond our power. He wants revenge against the people of the Bear. He says.. There are others.”

The Son of Mars is intrigued. “The Enclave.. here?" He smirks at the discomfort that appears on the young man's face. He hadn't shown so much as a flinch at a machete fight in close quarters, but he balks at any contact or alliance with the immorality and decadence of the Time Before.

“That is what the man claims. We may bring him to you if you desire, my lord. We may question him more thoroughly if that is your wish.”

Caesar chuckles. “No, no, my son,” he says. “The Enclave is proud. They believe themselves to be the remnants of Old World leadership. But they are deluded. They are cowards. When the gods burned the world, the Enclave hid and let the flames take everyone else. There’s not so many of them left. They're paying their dues and soon they'll die off and join the rest of the Old World dead.”

“Great Caesar is wise," Vulpes Inculta whispers.

“Still. Perhaps they could serve out their last days in use to me. Fighting against the NCR. I want to hear more of this man's offer. I want to know what he wants.”

“Yes, domine." Vulpes Inculta rises.

Caesar bids him to go, and the frumentarius bows deeply. His thoughts turn now to Polyhymnia, who is trying to pry off her mask. He can tell by her body language that she is going to be in a mood. Sometimes he likes that. He likes that fire in her. He has directed her attitude to be improved and he hopes he will not have to do so again for awhile. It is obnoxious to have to listen to the fiddle player alone who has so small a repertoire. And who cannot go for too long a time without subsiding into tearful sobbing.

The frumentarius is almost out the tent before a thought strikes Caesar. He makes the merest motion of his hand and one of the praetorians immediately jumps up. “Vulpes Inculta," the praetorian calls.

Quick as a fox he is standing before the throne. “Domine?"

“What about that courier? Anything new of our favorite rascal?" Caesar has come to enjoy the man's exploits. Some poor rudderless mail carrier who is stirring up trouble everywhere. A testament to the state of the Mojave.

Vulpes Inculta takes a knee. “My lord, in all the excitement I forgot to tell you. I am gravely sorry and beg discipline.”

Caesar's smile crooks into a pouty frown. “Oh no," he says. “Don't tell me he died from dysentary or something.”

“No, domine.”

"Eaten by fire ants?"

“No. It's.. "

“Scorpions?”

“No my lord, he yet lives.”

“I was worried for a moment. I was starting to warm up to that poor devil.”

“Our informant at McCarran reports that the major has put out a bounty for certain fiends in the wasteland. The courier has collected three of the major bounties.”

“He must be a formidable fighter.”

“I cannot say, domine, but he does something right. He has slain the ones called Violetta and Driver Nephi. With the latter, there was an issue of having a trained sniper on his team.”

“It's good to hear he's got friends.” The Son of Mars chuckles indulgently. “It sounds like the poor son of a bitch needs all the help he can get."

“The issue, and I'll summarize quickly, my lord, is that the major wanted the heads of the fiends to identify them and pay out the bounty. Driver Nephi was dispatched in such a way, by the aforementioned sniper, that any identification from that point was futile. The courier attempted to reassure the major that Driver Nephi was in fact dead, but Dhatri would hear nothing of it. He wanted proof. So the courier told him and I quote ‘Well I hoped it wouldn’t come to this' and he had the sniper drag in a headless body through the entire encampment and dump it on the major's desk. The body had a golf club stuck clean through it. A very distinctive golf club."

Caesar snorted. “A golf club clean through it, amazing.”

“It was reportedly done so by a little woman on their team, a female who wears some sort of ballistic fist. She has some sort of artificial strength.”

“The great Driver Nephi. Killed by some woman." Caesar thumps the arm rest of his throne and looks pleased. “Do you see how the gods turn away from the Profligates, Vulpes Inculta?"

"Yes, my lord. It is so.” The frumentarius seems more at ease that the forgotten story pleases his master. “Major Dhatri was quite annoyed but conceded to grant him the bounty. But he told the courier that any other fiend he dispatched would have to be intact for purposes of recognition.”

“I can tell this is going to be good. Don't disappoint me, Vulpes.”

“The next morning, the courier and his companions showed up at the gates of Camp McCarran with a fiend walking tamely beside them. Of course he was difficult to recognize with his signature armor and weapon stripped from him, or, rather, with a dozen bleeding wounds and a mutilated male member.... But I am told by our informant that when the drugged fiend blabbered two things over and over, cheerfully, deliriously, that every soul in McCarran believed him.”

Caesar leans in. "What were these two things?”

“‘Cook-Cook’, my lord. He just said ‘Cook-Cook' over and over. Laughing and giggling to the complete bewilderment of all. Even as they assembled all the men into companies for a formal execution by firing squad.” A pause. “They allowed a woman to kill him, too.”

“Sic transit gloria mundi. So goes the way of the Profligate, Vulpes Inculta. Fiends are not men. They do not deserve to die a man's death. I am amused by this story, even though you forgot to tell me.”

The frumentarius ducked his head down swiftly, again into a posture of great obeisance. “I will not be so remiss in the future, my lord.”

“Although it amuses me, it is also good to know that Camp McCarran, the heart of the NCR's power here in the Mojave, is in such a state of foolishness that all its companies of men-- First Recon included-- couldn't take down those three monsters. Monsters they are, but a real man will win every time. A man favored by the gods especially.”

"The Bear people are unable to defend the Mojave,” Vulpes Inculta intones. "They are not worthy."

Caesar nods. “So you see," he says. “Keep me updated on the comings and goings of this courier. I want to know what he will do with this money the NCR has given him. I want to know his adventures. I want to know how his little revenge story will play out.”

“The Chairmen will kill him, domine.”

Caesar has already started to consider a few things, wondering a few things. Ideas in the back of his head. He is curious about this man, this courier. Someone who knows how to get results. He likes that. He could have use of such a man. Temporarily, if anything. “Who knows? Fortune favors the brave.”

Vulpes Inculta rises.

“Go now and bring word of this man Orion Moreno. I want to hear what this Enclave man claims to offer. I want to know what the last American has to say." Caesar enjoys a cruel smile. “Find out how many there are. I’m not convinced they have anything left besides their delusions. Tell him I said so.”

The Son of Mars has spoken.

Vulpes Inculta thumps a salute to him.

Caesar has nearly forgotten that Polyhymnia remains. Her eyes behind the mask are narrow.

...

She is his muse and his current favorite. The other women seethe with jealousy and their little contests amuse him. How they hate her! They would cut each other’s throats for his favor. Sometimes he has half a mind to let them, to put a machete in their hands and allow them to settle it as the decani settled their dispute. Women are foolish and petty. They need controlling. Careful keeping. The Son of Mars has made this burned world safer for all females. He would not struggle as the NCR struggled, to stamp out fiends like that flamethrower bastard. He will not allow the Mojave to suffer more than it deserves.

He will be its worthy master.

It is mid-morning when he has finished with Polyhymnia. The light comes in bright and the red tent seems to glow. A fresh breeze is coming over Fortification Hill and some of the smell is lessened. Caesar lazes in his great wide bed, letting the sheets drape loosely over his thigh. He calls Lucius for something to drink.

Polyhymnia faces away from him, curled up. She is feeling sorry for herself again. Sometimes she will fight him so hard that he will have Lucius tie her, and he will come away with a face full of scratches. And sometimes she will weep. Sometimes she will stare at him flatly and not move a muscle. Sometimes she will grimly attempt to finish him as quickly as she can. That amuses him. One time, and only once, she commited a very disgusting act in the middle of their coupling, and smirked at him all the while. "How d’you like that, kid?” This did not amuse him and he told her, gently but firmly, that if she wanted filth, she would be treated accordingly. He had her taken to the latrine ditch where she spent a full day on tiptoes to keep her nostrils out of liquid. He would have also wanted her to spend a night thusly, but it did occur to him that she might have open cuts from her punishment. He didn't want her to die of infection. He only wanted to make a stern point.

She raved in her fever nevertheless. She spoke in all kinds of voices and sang intermittently.

The sybil was taken aback in religious horror and begged him to kill her. "She will be the end of us, domine. She is filled with evils.” The sybil was filled with shit, as it happened; she had hated Caesar’s muse right off for various reasons, least of which being that Caesar no longer brought the sybil to his bed. It would take more than that for him to part with his delicious prize. Polyhymnia had been his favorite radio starlet in her old life and now she is lifted up from the foolishness of the Profligates. To her eternal ingratitude.

He does not require her to love him. She doesn't know what is best for her. She is incapable of doing so. Yet he keeps her safe here. She is well fed. She is finely clothed. It is true she has lost her beauty, but he has other women, younger women. All types of women, all kinds, all looks. But he believes she will achieve what none of his other women have done for him. And she must. He feels the time drawing near.. if his suspicions are correct, if the pain is what he thinks it is.

But it has not happened in awhile.. perhaps.. perhaps it is only the stress.

There is so much happening now. But his concerns are of no matter. The NCR will fall.

He smiles to himself in the comfort of his bed. He turns his head on the pillow to look at Polyhymnia's back. He puts out blunt fingers to stroke her dusky skin. She flinches from him.

“You will bear my child," Caesar is proud to tell her.

“Never, I'll kill it," she mutters darkly, her face caged in by her arms. With a face like that she should thank all the gods for his attention. “I'll kill myself. You know I’ll do it.”

“A regular Medea, hmmm?" His fingers dig into the soft part of her arm. A warning. “You have a fire in you. It amuses me." He will never admit to the lonely desert nights where he sat amazed before his radio. That voice. That heavenly voice.

Her pattern of breathing has changed. He wonders which way her mood will turn this time, like the doomed youths of Crete blundering through the labyrinth. Will she begin to cry? Will she laugh contemptuously? Will she be pleased.. after all, isn't that what she would want? What every woman wants?

“You have a special destiny before you," he tells her, reassuringly. Women are weak and need guidance.

“Won't matter anyways, now will it?" The muffled voice is full of contempt. She knows what this will cost her; she is already sitting up, closing up, looking cagey, waiting for the blow to come. “When you're gone, Lanius will crush your kid like a bug. You think he’ll sit around and wait for your little monster to hatch out? Think he’ll take orders from some crappy diaper? He'll turn on you so fast, it’ll spin your globe baby. It's going on already, and you're the last to know.”

He has Lucius take her to the pit. Her attitude needs improving. She hisses and spits in Spanish as Lucius wrestles her out. His muse, his nasty, ill-tempered muse. He feels her absence almost at once. The loss of her magic.

He lays awhile in his bed, in the mid-morning sunshine.

The breeze has died and the smell returns.

The Son of Mars steps out into the courtyard of his tent. A slave slips a robe onto his body, not so firm as it had been, not so chiseled as it had been. The Mojave sun is bright, too bright.. That is why he has a pain behind his eyes. That must be the reason.

He squints upward and holds a hand to shield his vision.

There is a bird circling high above Fortification Hill. It is a vulture.


	2. 2

Random gunfire echoes throughout Freeside. A woman cries out. Bodies huddle around burning fire barrels. A mob of children fight with knives over a squealing rat. More gunfire. Rubble and trash as far as the eye will allow. The deep pervading stink of misery. The gaudy lights of the Strip beyond. The Lucky 38.

Vulpes Inculta hates it here, the filth, the disorder. He hates the clothing that he wears. He hates tying a tie.

He lets himself into Moreno's home all too easy. He expected more from a military man who has spent decades on the run, hated and feared and pursued. He expected more.. but Moreno expects him, yes? His way of drawing no unnecessary attention to his ramshackle hovel. Perhaps Moreno gives himself more credit.

The fedora comes off once indoors, and he switches it absently against his thigh as he checks entrances, exits. Windows. He casts an eye for any sort of traps that he might recognize, though the Enclave is rumored to possess weaponry and gruesome instruments beyond the realm of imagination.

He would like to ask about those. He is curious about these and more.

Moreno grunts from somewhere, “I'd offer you a drink.”

“No thank you,” Vulpes whispers. He sets his fedora neatly on his knee and reclines just slightly in the chair, watching as the old man shuffles into view. The frumentarius has selected a pose that is not too stiff, not too casual. He wishes to communicate politeness and expertise, as well as leaving himself open to ripping the machete out of his inside jacket panel.

“What did your boss have to say?”

Vulpes Inculta flashes a thin neat smile. Here we go, then. “My lord Caesar said he will need convincing that the Enclave has anything left but its delusions."

Moreno is dead silent a full beat, and in that span of time, Vulpes prepares himself to draw his weapon and terminate this encounter. If the Enclave man does not lie about the weapons and the armor, the Fox might yet be able to sniff them out himself.

Then he laughs as he swills from his drink. “That's rich, coming from some crazy faggot playing dress up." Best to meet like with like, Vulpes supposes, and he smiles as Moreno twists the knife: “You know he made all that shit up so he could run around killing everybody?”

“Oh, I know," Vulpes purred. “Fun isn't it? Yes?”

His instructors all told him that they would say such things. There were vicious lies among the Profligates, specifically designed to confuse and distract. The frumentarii were trained for such scenarios. Trained extensively. Beaten, abandoned, woken up in the night. Given the rare opportunity to run away to California Republic, to start over, to never speak a word of Latin again. It was a test. All a test. You could tear Vulpes Inculta out of bed at night and he would blurt out his name was Vincent Fox and he was born in Garfield County Utah and he had heard all those horrible stories about that crazy man William Howard and all his delusions in a world after the communists nuked us. Oh God, how did it all get so out of hand, how did we get so wild in so short a time. Oh Jesus. Help me. They took me as a child and I can't escape, I’m so afraid, I can't even tell what's real anymore! They killed her and I went along with it! Oh Christ! I let them do it! I'd give anything to take it back!

He could burst into tears if appropriate. Or a single tear. Again, if called for.

He had been trained and not a single word could make him doubt the will of Caesar.

Yet it was refreshing to be teased with a sparring partner like so. “In that vein I have a wonder, Orion Moreno.. if I may be so bold.”

Moreno waved his beer.

Vulpes Inculta sat up a little, sat a little closer with his hands on his knees like an impertinent schoolboy. “Do you honestly believe you are a real American?”

“Born and bred."

“Is that so?” The words fall away from his mouth with a light little tone. A slight inclination of his head.

Orion Moreno did not choose to seat himself; he just leaned his bulk in the doorway, and kept glancing into the other room. Probably where he was keeping more weapons or ammunition. Or was there someone else? “Do you want a serious answer?” Ordinarily he would have brought others with him, if just to watch, but it was best to go alone this time due to.. sensitivity. Vulpes knew he was strong enough to recognize and resist anything foolish they might say. Vulpes Inculta had reached a point from which there was no turning back. You had to look forward, thump your chest, and shoot your hand out. Ave, William Howard. True to Caesar.

True to Caesar.

Vulpes Inculta spread his hands. “Enlighten me. Please. I am curious about this America. And I think I will have a drink, thank you.”

Moreno snorts and goes to fetch him a beer. Vulpes perks up (sometimes he imagines himself with ears, like his Fox) and uses the moment of his absence to quickly scan into the other room, to reach a hand into the panel of his jacket and move the machete to the cleft of his chair. He shifts his trouser leg over it and re-checks the other weaponry hidden upon his person. There is no doubt in his mind that Orion Moreno also uses this time out of view to make his own preparations but it is the best he can manage to level the advantage.

“We could have turned all this around if it wasn't for the NCR.” Moreno's voice is gruff as he comes plodding back. He's brought a beer still unopened. Good. Vulpes would not have drank from something out of view. “There was still that chance. The radiation goes away after awhile.. you've been to Arizona. You've seen how the green comes back. There’s animals." Orion Moreno opens his beer with some sort of military multi-tool gadget. Pop! “Not everything was lost."

Vulpes accepts his beer and raises it, the bottle green in the dingy light. “I recommend Flagstaff. It is quite beautiful at all times of the year. The altitude will get you, though.”

Moreno's words drop like cattle clods, like it's all built up in there and has to get out somehow. No organized fashion, just messy, instinctive. “We have the land.. we have the people... we could have all started over. All we needed was law. Shoot the bad guys. Help the good guys. Heal the sick. Feed the hungry. We've done all kinds of tests.. studies. We’ve prepared for this.. after the war, and before. There's procedures in place. We could have had all the power on. Clear out all this rubble. Rebuild. Make all this go away.. like a bad dream. There's places on earth that will glow for a thousand fucking years.. but they would have served as a reminder not to do this ever again.”

Orion Moreno's voice grows tight. “But the NCR. I don't know what happened. They think they're legitimate. They think they're Californian. I don't know what happened down in their vaults. Don't know what got contaminated in there. But they just can't see things big picture. They don't know. Hell, you talk to them, and most of them don't even know what happened. They don't know about the Soviets, the Red Chinese. How close we really came to wiping out the human race. The NCR has doomed us. They’ve gone in and killed everybody who could have helped bring back law and order. Everybody who could have put the power back on. Created vaccines. They've caught and killed our engineers, our doctors, our best and brightest. The last hope of mankind. You can't get that knowledge back. Those skills back.”

“I am familiar with the incident at Navarro.” Ah, he knew that might come in handy someday. That bloody old journal. That box of tapes. Still in its hidey-hole beneath the red tiles of the centurion's villa. Probably. “How many of you remain?”

“Not enough," Moreno replies. “We're old. There's the kid.. he's got to pay his dues.” There is a flat bitterness in his voice, in his eyes. There is so much anger, so much despair, that he could either fly into a rampage or dissolve into helpless tears. He is on that knife's edge. Vulpes has a thrill of wonder; he bets that he could talk the man into loading his pistol into his mouth. If Vulpes wanted to. That is not preferable at this time.

“Names, if you please.”

“I might be persuaded.”

“A hint please. Vulpes cannot help you if you do not tell him what you want.”

“I want air conditioning. No kids born without arms or legs. No deaths from the common cold. I want white teeth, indoor plumbing, baseball games on the radio. Kids walking to school.”

“They were all vaporized in the nuclear blast. I regret to inform you.”

“You're a sick fuck, you know that?”

“It has been said. However it is the harsh light of truth." Vulpes makes an elegant gesture. He will take the lead away from this sentimental fool. Reinvigorated, he sits closer to the edge of the chair, leaning an elbow on his knee. He fluffs his fedora and repositions it, and his pale eyes lift to Orion Moreno's face. “What I would like from you is this. I want to know more of these energy weapons that you claim to possess. This armor you claim to possess. I will need to see them and to see a demonstration to know they still work.. after all this time.”

Moreno shrugs. “Might arrange it, if I didn't think you'd kill me after you got it.” So what is it that he would want. Playing coy. Hm.

“A man must keep his word," Vulpes says.

“A man's word isn't shit anymore.”

The frumentarius nods, a short clipped nod. “We are interested in your cooperation. And these others.” What would he want, the opportunity to fight for Caesar? A new young wife? “As you know, the Legion welcomes all beneath its banners. There may be a place for you among us...”

“You really wanna see my hairy ass and thighs in your skirts?"

Vulpes Inculta possesses the ability to stare for an extended period of time without blinking.

He looks Moreno in the eye.

“I don't want to join the damned Legion.” Moreno shakes his head. “I’ve got to stick to my guns. This is who I am. I won't compromise. The hell with everybody else just bowing down and caving in. I stayed true. I'll die a man.”

Vulpes drains his bottle of beer, sitting in the depressive stink of the Freeside squatter home. Ah, the last American. Is this what the Profligates have come to. He thinks that Decimus would have been fascinated to speak with Orion Moreno, a real live American at last.. how disappointed he would have been, though.

Yet only the Fates know the purpose of each thread. Orion Moreno may yet play a part.

And since the man is not so forthcoming as to what he would want from the Legion, Vulpes Inculta smiles. “I admire your tenacity if nothing else, Mr. Moreno. I am starting to think you may be the man I am looking for.”

“Sorry sweetheart.”

“I want names, locations, descriptions. Where can I speak to these individuals. I want to know more about your weapons. In return, and I cannot tell you more than the Son of Mars will allow.. but little birds whisper that there will be a special entertainment to be determined.”

Moreno stares sullenly.

Vulpes Inculta smiles a cruel smile. “It's said that Kimball himself will be flown out to the Dam to make some stirring speech. To be broadcast over the magic of radio into the home of every good NCR family." His fingertips dance and tap on the empty bottle, tap-tap tap. “But I've always thought the problem with Kimball was that his advisors portrayed things so one-sided. Wouldn't it be refreshing.. to get in your piece?"

He allows that to sink in while he claps on his fedora.

"Thank you for the beer, Mr. Moreno. Tell me what you think and I'll let old Bill know. I'll even bring my skirt next time, just for you. Ta."

...

Two Fox Kits was thirteen the year that the Hell Hound centuria returned from the Sonoran campaign. Despite the rumors otherwise, Decimus their commander had not fallen, though no one seemed to believe he was really dead this time. Not loved by the gods as he was, Marcus Decimus, that crazy son of a bitch. Some of the local officers held a little celebration for the return of the Dogs. Slaves struck tents on the green shoulders of an old man-made pond, and the mosquitos were held at bay by the burning of some incense. Ambitious desert vegetation grew up through the ruins of the Old World City nearby, and in the clear cool light of the full moon, everything looked strange and new, magical and weird. On the way over, Fox had locked eyes with an elk on the steps of the old city courthouse. The animal had two irises in one of its eyes, covered with a milky cataract. Extra teeth erupted from the outside of its jaw. It stared at him and tracked his movement, and then it was gone. The appearance of the animal still resonated in a part of him, in some deep down hidden tribal heart.

He did not want to go to the celebration. What would he say. What would he do. What time did he have to be back at the barracks. Was there something happening tomorrow. He wished to see Decimus but he knew he would always be welcome at the home of the centurion. He lived there for a time after he had been rescued from the Utah excursion, and it was a good time, a simple time, with regular meals, clean water, a routine, and sleeping in a warm nest of blankets, fed and protected. Decimus would take him out into the courtyard with the Mexican tiles and teach him to fight. Or they would play tug of war with Hercules. Or they would just watch the quail gathering on the stucco walls. Lydia the centurion's wife showed him a trick how she got them to eat out of her hands. From time to time he would run errands for her, bringing items from the market, and she would giggle and give him fresh lemons from the tree in the courtyard. He did not mind. He told himself he owed it to them for their kindness. It was a point of honor.

Fox would know the centurion's voice anywhere, a voice like the ringing of a bell, a clear voice that carried across the desert. His deep booming laugh, the way it toppled over itself until he ran out of sound and just shook. He laughed at all his own jokes, he laughed at your jokes, funny or not, especially if he did not understand them because ‘I’ve got your back, Foxy, don't worry, everyone will feel pressured to start laughing also’.

It had been years since he last spoke with Decimus face to face. Letters notwithstanding. He loved to be written to, and he and his wife kept up a warm correspondance throughout his campaigns. Fox would write him from time to time, not knowing precisely what to say. But he would write you even if you didn't write back, and he would send things, strange things from foreign lands. Strange shells, trinkets, daggers, a revolver, and one time-- brought to him by a terrified courier-- a ridiculous broad-brimmed hat.

In fact, when Fox found himself suddenly grabbed up into a crushing hug, Decimus roared, “Juno's tit! Where is that sombrero I sent you!"

...

If only they found a sculptor that lived, there would have been a statue of Marcus Decimus Augustus.

He first earned his fame through the fire and chaos of the Battle of the Canyon Temple, where the Legion took on the shrieking raiders of a slaving tribe who no longer existed. The morning before, by the direction of the Shaman King, the boy Marco had been sacrificed to the Guardian, the Beast Beyond the River, Law of the Old World, Soul Judger, Who Stands Between the Living and the Dead. Positioning themselves for attack, ferrying the siege equipment and readying the dogs, Caesar bent over a map and scowled as the boy's distant screaming once again broke his concentration. "Poor devil," Graham said, "I guess the Guardian's just not hungry?"

The tribals were said to feed captives into some pit or another, the Tomb of the Beast, etc, and the Shaman King seemed to believe that a sacrifice would wake the Beast and bring them victory.

By afternoon the boy's screaming went hoarse and then entirely silent, and by nightfall, Caesar's men swarmed the weird and wild hive that was scrap metal, floodlights, and a prehistoric cliff dwelling. They fought howling warriors spraying bullets and brandishing garden tools, crazed men in paint and ashes and leather and gaudy flashes of pre-war women's wear.

When the assault reached its fever pitch, the boy Marco was seen, dirty, scraped, with huge crazy eyes. "Guess what, pendejo?" he screamed, though the Shaman King was not impressed until he saw the red flash of optics come on in the dark.

This story was told many a time, at many a dinner party, and Fox himself gawped the first time he heard it. The garnet ring of the Malpais Legate flashed in the candlelight when he lifted his goblet and said, "Ahhh yes, the moment I saw that little Mexican charge his robot alsatian into battle, I knew the transvestites were well and truly fucked."

When Decimus heard it he had laughed so hard no sound came out, and he just lolled on the chaise with a hand on his face, before he sprang up, ruffled Fox's hair, and popped an olive in his mouth. "Noooo, that didn't happen!" he gasped in delight.

"Guess what, pendejo," the legate replied.

...

Hell Hound centuria ran differently than most of the other units, some eighty men sent far off to sniff out and track down the worst enemies of civilization. They fought raiders, fiends, eaters, hunters, savages, ghouls, monsters, mutants, anything and everything that Caesar judged thumbs-down. Cut-off from supply lines, far from any aid or replenishment, these men lived harsh lives of absurdity, boredom, terror, and brotherhood. Their mission was never to conquer and dig into any territory. They held some contempt for the others that arrived in their wake, glutting on destruction and rape while they crisped tarantulas over a distant fire, wrestled off mutant scorpion attacks, and wondered in a half-joking but not-quite voice if it was possible to pleasure oneself with a hole in a cactus. If one was careful. Theoretically.

Decimus said that in the coffers of Flagstaff Courthouse, there was a solid gold denarius for the first man to find out.

In the Sonoran campaign, Decimus and his men brought justice to the warlord of the Rusted Spear People and collected a handsome tribute from the Tekai. No one had died, although Agricola Minor had dislocated his arm, Africanus was bitten by a serpent, and Lepus the slave had bruised his ribs in a fight with one of the Rusted Spear skirmishers. Forced by distance and supply lines to conserve his soldiers, and by his own personal style of command, Marcus Decimus was a father to his men or at least the eccentric uncle. A man's man, a real soldier, who had fought his way up the ranks and personally recognized by Great Caesar himself. He had the soul of a dog, full of energy, a true and loyal friend and a dedicated enemy.

He was one of those men who simply looked like a hero, and Two Fox Kits used to think he was loved by the gods.

The centurion was an arresting sight in his flashing lorica, where golden dogs chased each other across the breastplate. The bright red crest. The distinctive helm. He had dark hair and olive skin, and steely gray eyes that followed you. In the arena he wore a lightly armored variant that hugged only one shoulder, and his body was like the body of a god. There was no shame in looking, and you simply had to, watching open-mouthed with all the stands as Decimus slid so smooth beneath an opponent's strike.

When Fox thought of him, he used to think of the centurion standing with a boot on an enemy's throat, his sword poised for the final blow, his crested head turned just so as to see the hand of his lord and commander. He had stood this way in the arena as on the battlefield, the fearless champion of the Legion.

The morning of their official return from the Sonoran campaign, Caesar honored Marcus Decimus with a triumph.

Vulpes liked to remember him now as he had looked that morning, heroic and shining, like the embodiment of the best of the Legion. Their armor flashed down the streets of Santa Fe Avenue, marching with their standard high, all the way to the steps where Caesar and the Legate awaited.

Marcus Decimus called halt, mounted the stair, and formally presented the weapon of the Rusted Spear warlord.

Bowing low, his handsome face transfixed with the gravity and honor of this great moment, the centurion held out the spoils of war in upturned palms. His voice when he spoke in the sacred language was music, and it came easy to him.

Caesar was pleased with his efforts, received the spoils, and placed his hand upon the bare head of his loyal Dog, Decimus.

With the blessing from the Son of Mars, the centurion stood, pulled on his crested red helm, and went back to his formation... while flipping a gold coin to the vexillarius.

...

Fox had lived with Decimus and Lydia first after Utah, had known them first, so it took years and a rude awakening to realize that their relationship was not typical among the Legion.

After the campaign where Decimus beheaded the raider Pig Man in single combat, a gruesome episode by far, the Malpais Legate gifted him with a slave of striking beauty. Caesar approved, smiled slyly, and said the girl would make a suitable wife to the brave centurion.

To which Marcus Decimus stopped hissing and picking at his burn wound, blinked, pushed up the visor of his helmet, blinked again, and started to protest that the girl was simply too young.

Graham said she would grow into him.

Marcus cast about for some other excuse and declared there was no way he was ever going to get any sons with a girl who didn't bleed yet.

Young Lanius, breathing slowly and loudly behind his mask, rumbled that he could make her bleed.

In the end, Marcus Decimus hauled home a weeping Chinese girl of thirteen who he had never asked for. But how do you refuse the Legate? Caesar?

Two Fox Kits figured that due to their disparity in age, he was more a father or a brother to the girl at first, always friend. He had rarely seen a man who was friends with his wife, and never the warmth and companionship between Marcus and Lydia.

He let her run wild around the house and the courtyard, letting her paint the walls, grow flowers, run her little experiments. She tried to nurse a wounded bird in a little box, and when it died, they buried it in the garden by the poppies-- Hercules helped dig. Lepus caught her a sticky lizard off the wall and Marcus made her a little habitat to keep him in. She had a cage of doves that the dog barked at, cuttings of flowering cactus that she tried to cultivate, and drying herbs that hung from the ceiling and made the little stucco home smell heavenly.

Fox was not certain he had ever heard Lepus speak any more than twenty words, but there was something deeply sarcastic about his person, all in his face, his eyes. He was an Iron Line scout who refused to take up the Legion banner as a soldier, and so he was forced to bow before it as a slave. He possessed the ink tattoos earned by a warrior of a vanished people. He wore beads and bits in his hair. Two Fox Kits had been intrigued by him at first, remembering a tribal childhood and thinking that this haughty hunter looked like some wild prince. He could catch a bird with his hands. He could drink water that would kill a man. He could throw a spear through a ghoul at forty paces. He had followed the Hounds on every campaign and was always treated with sly smiles and barking and shoulder slaps every time he appeared.

He had been given to Decimus ages ago and the man let him get away with everything.

It was those three odd persons who made their household, that little stucco home on the edge of EELER PARK, according to the crumbling sign before the block of green.

For a time, Two Fox Kits had happy memories of that home, the comfort and belonging, the gray-pink mornings out in the courtyard under the lemon tree. Hercules clacking on the tiles with his metal feet. Lydia lovely and warm, whom he had loved intensely since the first moment she threw a Mexican blanket over him and hugged him tight, petting his head, sealing his fate. "Poor thing," she'd cried, "can we keep him?"

At first their ages seemed so far apart, him a child half a skeleton, and her a young lady who bounded out in a new dress every couple of hours to show off to Decimus, who whistled and combed her hair if she sat nudged up close to him.

But over the seasons Fox grew into a slender body, leanly muscled with a wiry strength, changing and growing, growing into a new name. One evening in the cool air, before Decimus and Lepus left to hunt NCR rangers, they sat together in the courtyard, walled in, momentarily alone while Decimus went back in to fetch-- something or another.

The moment stretched on and Fox sweated. He tried to look away, but her eyes found his eyes. Owls hooted in the pines. "You will have to visit me when they're gone," she said softly. "I won't even have Hercules."

Fox had come to realize that any other man's wife would be beaten for such a statement, no matter how innocent. No. No other man's wife would even be left alone, be allowed to speak to some other man. Allowed to be seen dressed like that.

His mind raced for something to say, a way to remind her of propriety, for he respected her as he respected the centurion who had saved his life. Lydia was innocent, in her own way. Doctoring birds and making little homes for lizards. It would not do to inadvertantly anger Decimus, especially as the Dogs prepared to march. It would not do to give him the wrong idea.

While he began to piece together a reply, Lydia reached out a hand and stroked his fingers. He gaped in surprise and her painted eyes darkened, and when she squeezed his hand, it went right through him.

Decimus reappeared with something or another and honestly, it could have been the Golden Fleece draped over his arm and Fox would not have noticed or remembered. All he recalled from that point was the dread and guilt and anger. Marcus. How could you have let this happen. How did you not see.

He dimly remembered some hasty words of good luck to Decimus and his centuria, a prayer for Mars to favor him against the Bear People Rangers, a prayer for Mercury to help him track across the wastes. There was a dark part of him that exulted in the coming mission, but he shut his eyes and willed away those thoughts.

The Hounds left. He never went to her. His unit marched out.

The next time the three of them sat together beneath the lemon tree, Lydia had made her decision. Fox became Vulpes. Decimus returned with a strange trophy from a forgotten NCR outpost.

Vulpes sometimes wonders if things might have turned out differently. If there existed a way to save Decimus. There wasn't, of course-- he has analyzed the situation time and again. It had not been a single event, a single thing, no, but a confluence of different factors, different moments running together.

The duel with Lanius. A slip of the tongue in a heated moment. Cerberus. Lepus. What was hidden under Lydia's bed. And the Pandora's box of tapes from the NCR outpost, POSEIDON and NAVARRO SESSIONS.


	3. 3

Caesar appreciates a practical man. This man Dale Barton has looked on the banner of the legion, red as far as the man can see, and he has made his decision. No theatrics. No heroics. He simply got down on one knee and drew off his cowboy hat. His mustachioed mouth was thin. "Mighty Caesar," he had said. "Might'n I show you what I've got in my wagon?"

Barton trades with them now. He remarks time and again how safe the roads are. How far he can go without a single attack. Isn't afraid to sleep rolled up in his blanket at night. No one runs off with his cattle. No raiders or fiends.

"Of course there are no raiders or fiends," Caesar told him, once. "They're all bones."

He has made a desert and called it peace.

Dale Barton comes to him this morning with a special trade.

"Great Caesar," he says when he sees the praetorians, and he makes a sweeping gesture with his hat. "If you're interested, this came by me.. "

His cattle low and stamp against the weight of the artillery pieces. He has had the oxen drag it far.

Caesar gives Horatius a slight nod, and the man steps away from his retinue. Runs a gauntleted hand along one of the artillery pieces. Lucius stands near.

"Weapons of the profligates, my lord," he whispers. "I like this not.”

The slightest motion of his hand, and Lucius ducks his head, steps away, chastised. Caesar strolls out for a look at the artillery. “Looks impressive," he says. "But does it work?" His eyes turn to the trader.

Barton scratches his head with the hand not holding his hat. “No, sir, not yet," he says. “A proper bit of fixin and they're good like new, though. I figure they just need tweaking.”

“Ah. So you would sell me these useless things." Caesar nods slowly.

Dale Barton's eyes widen. “Oh, no no, sir, they just need a bit of fixing," he says. “Maybe some new parts. I d’know how they worked, I was never in any military.”

“You did right to bring them here," Caesar tells him. He has frightened the man enough, just enough to make his point. He smiles and looks away from the bright sun. “But here they will remain. When you find me the parts, I will pay you full price in denari, and extra for your efforts.”

...

It is noontime, hot and sleepy.

There is the slightest breeze in the fabric of the tentflap courtyard.

Polyhymnia is docile again. A stint in the pit always brings out the best in her. The women have washed all the stench off her this time, and someone has anointed her with rose-water. Caesar rests his face against her brown breasts. There are little freckles on them. He pulls one nipple into his mouth but she does not respond. Never does.

So be it. He does not require her to love him. Nor does he wish to waste his time with her pleasure. She is foolish. There have been other women who would have fought each other to the death for his attention. Some did.

His mood is lazy, sleepy, tired.. so tired, these days. Sometimes. It is the weather.

A voice is speaking, and it is Lucius.

“My lord. My lord.”

He opens an eye.

“My lord. The Legate will be here shortly.”

Caesar rises.

Shaven-headed slaves come with his clothing. He holds his arms out, and they dress him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Polyhymnia laying on the bed, ruined face turned away, looking at the wall. It is not her best angle... but then, he does not know she has one.

Sometimes he flips her on her knees so he does not have to stare at that dead milky eyeball.

He is making himself a reminder to have it cut out when the slaves bring his armor.

Attired in red, richly robed, with his detailed armor about his frame, Caesar smiles, feels young and strong again. Feels the blood flowing, bringing him out of his stupor.

When he steps out into the courtyard before his throne, the praetorians are busy as ants. Ignatius and Sextus have dragged out the long table, setting it in firm, and Sextus smiles at him; he is one of the younger, newer praetorians, with curly blond hair and a fresh scar still healing on his face.

Alerio is spreading a map on the table when Caesar asks him, "And where is Vulpes Inculta?”

“Not here, my lord.”

“By the gods, you are the cleverest of the frumentarii."

Alerio stares, and then inclines his head and body in a flourish of obeisance. “My lord. Vulpes Inculta is still searching for your Americans.”

Ohh.. that. “Hard to find any these days, hm," Caesar chuckles. “No wonder it takes him so long. Ah but for a moment there, I thought he was hiding from Lanius.”

He can't see the eyes behind the sunglasses, but he imagines that he would see a little spark in his eye. The moment Alerio sees his opportunity. The frumentarius licks his lips and says, “I would not be surprised, my lord, he hates the Legate. He says so openly."

How quickly the frumentarii turn upon one another. How amusing. Perhaps Alerio thinks his time is coming.. as Vulpes Inculta's time came, when he cut the throat of his predecessor.

Alerio is mistaken if he thinks he could take Vulpes so soon. There is a cunning behind those icy eyes.

Caesar has half a mind to set them free in the arena. See what comes of it. He is ruminating pleasantly upon this theme when the horns sound to announce the Legate’s arrival. Caesar swears he can hear the giant lurching and creaking and clanking all the way up the hill.

“Great Caesar, Son of Mars, my lord, domine.”

Down to one knee, Caesar stares full level with the giant. Even as a boy he was huge, a Hidebark, one of the most vicious of tribes battered into submission. The eyes of the Butcher watch him intently from behind the mask; he sees the brown orbs moving, twitching.

“Rise, Lanius," Caesar tells him with a gesture from the throne. “Tell me of my forces.”

“My lord. The Titans are at full strength, the Cyclopes and Dragons also. The Boars are short one decanus, and I think to raise Bittenhand to that post. As for the Scorpions.. “

“The Minotaurs.”

“My dear Minotaurs are bored." The Butcher breathes thick and heavy behind his mask. “Cottonwood Cove is quiet but for the wailing of the slaves. Aurelius begs me for the chance to push his centuria forward.. but that, my lord, is your decision.”

“In time, Lanius." Caesar smiles as he stands up from his throne. There is a moment he is waiting for, but it has not yet come. He feels it on the way, and as he strolls slowly to the table, he beckons the horrid Butcher to join him. “Take off that thing so you can see my map.”

The stupid-huge hands of the giant come up, and the thick metal fingers grasp the mask. Lift it off. He stands, and when he turns, Sextus the new praetorian gasps to see his face.

Lanius has no face. No skin, just muscle, scar, scab, one ear, no nose. Just cavities and chewed-off lips. He looks like he grins all the time. Dry, dry teeth. His body has struggled hard to keep him living, to find some way around his mutilation.

Caesar has seen many horrors in his long decades. The child sacrifice of the Twisted Hairs. The incestuous fire orgies of the Scrap Lord, Keepright. The raider warlord Pig-Wife, and how he got his name. There is little left to shock him. He fucks a ruined woman every night these days.

On the map he points out the positions of his centuria, has Lanius read out a report. He has the man speak on conditions of the terrain. Where to ford the river. Where supply lines run. The giant hangs over him and breathes heavily out of his mouth, slightly cross-eyed. Caesar feels like he is schooling some idiot son, like some of the throwbacks born in the Profligate cities, those wastes of flesh that the Followers kept living.

Yet Lanius is far more clever than he appears.

As Caesar speaks to the map and as his finger crosses marks of elevation, he gets a glimpse of Polyhymnia from the corner of his eye. She wears one of the masks he had made for her, fired from red-brown Mexican clay. Her robes again cover her body.

The conversation moves now to the artillery pieces dragged up by Barton's brahmin. The Legate's attention falters. Though he stands half a length away, Caesar swears he can feel the giant's husky breath upon his neck.

“My lord," he says. “It is said among the ranks that you have a new woman."

Polyhymnia freezes. Caesar almost smiles; well, that will teach her to be so nosy. Women are always gossips, thieves, spies. “Yes. Polyhymnia.”

Lanius stares. On hot days, after heavy exertion, his fleshless face calls flies to it. “May I see her, domine?”

Sextus gapes, and then his face goes very tight. He puts his armored young body between the Muse and the Butcher. Polyhymnia ducks back into the bed chamber and Lucius looks to him, eyebrows raised, brown eyes questioning.

Caesar hesitates. It is there a moment, his fingertip on the map's Lake Mead, but then it is gone. “Go and see," he says. He must control the situation.

Lanius drops the heavy mask upon the table and lumbers in to look at her. Lucius brings her back, squirming, shaking, her own masked face turned hard into her shoulder.

The thick hand of the giant closes on her chin, bringing up her head, pushing up the mask at it travels. In broad daylight the horror of the woman is revealed. She had been beautiful once, but not now, no thanks to the Minotaurs who hardly knew what treasure they had come across.

“But you have other women, my lord, much more appealing." Lanius sounds amazed. His metal thumb pressed down just beneath her eye, tugging down the eyelid, and his skinless face stares at her sightless orb.

Caesar experiences a pang of regret that he has allowed Lanius to see her. Like pearls before swine. He could not understand what she is, or who she is. “She has it where it counts," he tells the giant, and Lanius laughs on her face. That is one thing he understands. His breath must stink.

“I have a woman with stump legs," the Butcher murmurs. “Fucking's good, better than you think. Nothing to get in the way.”

A burst of Spanish comes from Polyhymnia. A gasped prayer. Dios mio!

“She is so old, and loose. Let me gift you a woman, domine." The Butcher's deep breathy voice comes earnest. His naked face is honest. “I know just the one, and she is exquisite."

Lucius pulls her away after that, and Sextus stares, face white with rage around the new purple scar.

Caesar crosses his arms, and his voice comes flatly. “You would insult me with your leavings, Lanius?”

“No, domine, please." Lanius shows both armored hands. His skinless face is arranged in a disgusting smile, all shrunken gums and dry yellow teeth. “But this one is good. No more than twelve. Her sex grabs you tightest I've ever known. You will like her, my lord.”

Caesar feels a terrible anger growing in his chest. He has not cared what Lanius chooses to do. Never cared what any of them did. So long as they respected him, carried out his will. Though he does not doubt that the Legate respects him, something has transpired here that irritates him more than he would want to admit.

“Back to business, Lanius.” He has waited for a moment, and the moment is here. Great Caesar smiles. “I need you to focus. I have work for you.”

The giant breathes Yes.

Caesar has a memory of standing over this very table, this very map, with Joshua Graham peering over his shoulder. Calhoun, and even Robinson, all trusted men.. before they could not be trusted. Sometimes he feels their absence, as he does now, with only the Butcher breathing on his neck. “Word came yesterday that we’ll be having another centuria. Sooner than I thought. I'll need outfitting for them and new equipment. New men. I'll want to send them across with the Minotaurs.”

Interest shows on the Butcher's face. Due to his injury, the ripping and tearing of the skin, his tear ducts sometimes run and a slime accumulates. “The Centaurs, my lord, out of Two Sun?”

Caesar strokes the map and smiles. “No, Lanius. The Hounds.. out of Utah.”

The giant’s teeth show in a grimace, huge and yellow. “But you sent them into the lands of the witch-women.” The unspoken words: You sent them to die.

“To return with the body and the armor of their commander.”

Lanius breathes like an ox that strains beneath the yoke. "They found it? His body?”

“His bones.”

"They are his bones.”

Caesar smiles as he feeds out these tidbits of information, one by one. “Vespillo described the skull to me. Said it had the little chip in the front tooth.. from when he fell after too much tequila.”

Even before he lost his face, it was difficult to read the Butcher's expression. Caesar knows, though, knows in his heart that the Monster of the East must be disappointed.

“You would send them back to Flagstaff, domine?”

“One last parade down Santa Fe Avenue, wouldn't that make you burn." Caesar chuckles softly, like a father to his son. “That chipped-tooth skull grinning all the way up to the steps of the courthouse.”

The Butcher shakes. "Decimus was a profligate!"

“And that is why he will not be buried in the capital. The Hounds will bring him here, his bones and his armor. He was still my centurion.”

“They should have died with him!"

“But they lived, and they’re good soldiers.”

“For every one of them, I have ten fighters even stronger.”

But your men are animals, Caesar thinks.

“You will outfit them with new equipment, new men. They will need a new centurion.. Africanus died along the way, I’m told."

“Domine, they cannot be trusted.”

Caesar looks carefully upon the sticky, gruesome face.

“You will outfit them, Lanius. You will give them fresh weapons, armor, men. Then I will command them across the river. My Hounds will be the first to tear into the ranks of the NCR. The Gods and the desert have tested them. They came back. So I will test them. They were a good centuria, one of the best, and they can prove themselves again.”

The skinned face lowers. Lanius brings his breathing under control the best that he can. The blunt fingers of a metal hand are reaching out, touching the edges of his mask, and then bringing the grim helmet into his grasp. “It is a pity they did not find him alive-- somehow.”

“Sitting around drinking tequila, no less?" Guess what, pendejo.

“I would have fought him. I was stronger than him. He could not win except by cheats and lies. It was all a show. The crowd--”

"Cheer up, Lanius. You won.”

“You would have made him Legate after Graham.” The eyes of a child peer out from the mutilated face.

Caesar feels his patience wearing thin. The heat is stupefying, and it only sharpens the smell of the Butcher, of the Hill. There is a pressure building behind his eye sockets. “Decimus was a fine warrior, a fine centurion. But he had a flaw he could not overcome. I warned him. Graham warned him. He is dead now, Lanius. He is gone. You won. Now.. you have work to do, don't you.”

Lanius nods dumbly, and he gives a low bow with difficulty, like an ox coming down on one knee. Then he brings the helm down on his head. “I would have fought a man rather than his ghost," the Butcher tells him as he leaves. “I don't know how you manage-- domine. But at least we have that skull."

And Caesar stands with his hand on the map, thinking of Graham, for whom they had no body.


	4. Chapter 4

She was born within three walls of an ancient mission, so old that no pews remained, so old that only splinters of glass glimmered in the windows. If you climbed up to where the old bell hung, you'd get stung by wasps. But if you looked out you'd see the ruins of the Old World on the horizon.

There was a crumbling statue of a man in the mission, a man with sad imploring eyes. Mama told her that there once lived people in those far-off ruins, but they had been wicked. Mama wept and told her that the man with sad eyes had taken them all away.

Mama wept all the time.

They lived alone in the mission but for a sharp yucca plant and scrawny chickens scratching in the red dust. She made a doll out of corn husks and old rags, called it Bonita, and made it her baby.

Men came sometimes on their way to the Old World city. Sometimes they stopped in the mission, and Mama sent her outside to play.

There was a shack a walk away, where a man came to work, where the voice of a radio broke the silence. Later the facts would fall into place, that Dr. Dreckenstein was what they called a Follower of the Apocalypse, that he was probably her father.

She came first for the radio, and then for him, because he was kind-- when he took notice of her, when he had time. When he showed up for the season, he worked and fixed, wrote and researched. Tweaking and tuning that radio.

She sat amazed at the voices that came out of it, the songs, the stories. There was a serial story that she liked and in the story there was a young boy and his dog and they went on adventures.

She wanted a dog. A boy. An adventure. She was alone most of the year, just her and mama and Bonita, but she had that secret radio... and it wasn't so lonely anymore.

Dr. Dreckenstein disappeared after awhile, never came back, and when she stopped sobbing she hugged the radio box and realized she still had that.

She would sing and pretend Bonita sang with her. They would do everything together. Best friends. One of the Dead Men brought her a little charm necklace out of the Old City. Tucker was his name.

Then one day Mama found the charm, found Bonita, and ripped the dollbaby out of her hands. Mama slapped and hit her, scratched her, Foolish girl, whore, puta, where did you get this?

She cried out to stop hurting Bonita. She was her baby.

And Mama raged. That was why the nailed man took away all the people. Too much fucking. Too many babies. The nailed man burned the world because of man's wickedness.

And Mama's anger subsided into sobbing, and she cried too.

Mama let her bury Bonita in the churchyard. They gave her a funeral, in nomine patris et filli et spiritus sancti.

...

Mama wept all the time anymore. She grew very ill and her daughter hardly knew her. The men stopped long enough to get a good look, shuddered, and went on their way.

They had to eat cactus and roots. The hens stopped laying. No more eggs. Mama killed all the chickens, all at once, and laughed at the bloody feathers catching dust.

She tried to cook them all up, and for two days, they had a feast, and Mama laughed with grease running down her chin.

She hid in the shack with the radio, turning the dials, searching stations. She despaired and moaned with horror until out of the static came the voices, songs from a better place. She had this idea she would be a singer too.

Then Mama burnt the shack and the radio. Said she sent it back to the devil. They had run thin on food and Mama's sickness made her angry. Mama yelled these days, screamed, tore her clothing and went half-naked in the mission yard, howling and poxy.

Desperate with hunger, she clawed through the pantry, looking for something, anything that they could eat. They had already cooked the pointy yucca in the yard and already suffered that stomachache. She was pulling out a pan when Mama clawed back into the mission, bent on rage. What had set her off at last, her daughter never knew.

Mama's voice rang out weird in the old nave with the roof torn out. Beams of light with dust flying in them. Mama called her a whore, puta, the harlot seated on the Beast, Mama called her all kinds of things, yelled and shrieked, swung and scratched, and her daughter put her silent with a solid cast iron pan.

Down the road a kindly old man found her, a trader with plodding cattle, and he took her in, washed her up, and gave her a sweaty edge of cornbread. Charles Duggin was his name, and he took her far from that place.

Hat in his hand, wiping tobacco juice from his lip, he said he would take care of her so long as she took care of him. There was no living soul to marry them, but they stood before God and the desert, and he lay her down on the side of the road on his itchy woolen blanket.

The old man's beard scratched her neck. The scratching beard and the unpleasant, hurting pressure.

Months later she discovered Duggin had a wife already, and children of her age. Duggin told his dog-faced woman that the girl was delusional, some Mexican pulled out from the desert, he took kindly on her and see how she lied. What rotten things she said.

When she ran off one night with a sack stolen from his wagon, no one was surprised.

She had this idea that she would run away and find a city. She would sing on the radio. They would hear her voice and know immediately. She had it. The nailed god gave it to her, even though she was wicked.

But the road to New Reno, the road to New Vegas, it was a long road and full of hell. Horrifying beasts and animals that looked like no animals she had ever known. Their gnashing teeth, their hideous growths, the way they stumbled on too many legs. The people were worse. Hooting, shrieking raiders who threw filth at each other and took turns with dead bodies.

There was nothing to eat. There was nothing to drink.

After awhile, dazed, she felt no hunger, felt no thirst, felt no pain, and she drifted through the desert like a ghost. She tottered and slipped down the side of a ravine, slid into a pit of bones, and that was where the Dead Man found her.

"Hey kid."

Water splashed her face.

She woke to find a ghoul staring down at her.

She screamed.

"Good. You're awake."

It was Tucker from the Old City beyond the mission. She didn't know his face, as noseless and rotten as any ghoul's face, but she knew voices. She only had to hear a voice once and she knew it forever.

He gave her water to drink, food to eat, and she came back to herself on the floor of an old gas station.

"You know your old lady was bonkers, right," Tucker said. "Wanted to tell you. Wasn't my business, maybe."

"Mama's in heaven now."

"Yep. Well. What're you going to do now?"

"I want to sing on the radio."

"Yeah. Figured. Take you as far as New Reno."

So she went with Tucker. They walked at night, and spent the day in the gray shadows of ruined buildings. Tucker had lived when the buildings were new, when there were automobiles. Planes.

"Mama said Jesus burned the world because man was wicked."

"Meh.. I'da said it was the communists," Tucker grunted. "But what the hell."

He said he used to fix planes out of Vegas. Spend his leave drunk on the Strip. Said the lights were still there, even after everything, when the rest of the world had gone dark.

She wanted to go there. People would hear her on the radio.

Tucker laughed. "You need to get smart, kid," he told her. "How old are you?"

She thought fourteen. But she was a woman now, not a kid. She got married.

And Tucker laughed again, a laugh of long and lonely bitterness. "And how'd that turn out. Let me tell you, kid. Forget about all that. Forget him. You're not married. You can be who you want to be. Do what you want to do. It's gonna cost ya, sweetheart. But maybe, just maybe."

"What do I do, Tucker?" she whispered.

"What you have to, kid. S' a long road to Vegas."

"Where do I start?"

"With a new name. A new you. Think of what you're gonna call yourself."

She always closed her eyes when they were together. Couldn't bear to look at his face. But that time, with the ghoul moving over her, moving in her, she shut her eyes tightly and told herself: Bonita. Esperanza Bonita.

She had many names in her lifetime. Trixie Vegas. Miss Dreckenstein. The names of all her husbands. A painful stint as Esmerelda, shaking her cans. They wanted her to simper and moan, speak broken English.

Esperanza Bonita was a stupid name, but when she lived in her prime, when she lived her dream, that was her best name, and it lived on after she had washed up, hit thirty, washed out. It was a name that held power, the power of her voice, so much that when all the world fell apart around her, when the dark was closing in, it was her name and her voice that held back her gruesome fate.

AURELIUS, ENOUGH, roared Caesar, and the whip stayed.

YOU THERE, WOMAN. YOU MAY SPEAK.


	5. Chapter 5

Part of him's glad that Israel died. Didn't have to live to see Navarro raided. Didn't have to know Lloyd betrayed them. Didn't have to find out his son was a faggot, never have kids, nothing, his line dead on out, a line that stretched back to the brave Navy captain who took the president's arm and said, "Sir.. we've got to go now, God help us all." No, none of that.. and Israel didn't have to see Moreno struggling across the wasteland with some wear-a-skirt legion fucker.

Not that Iz would have recognized him.

In the harsh light of the Mojave sun, Moreno feels a million years old, fat, out of breath, sweat pouring everywhere. His buttcrack itches.

The heat hardly seems to bother Vulpes Inculta. He lopes along like a desert animal, sleek and powerful. He could run all day, all night. Moreno thinks his name has something to do with a fox, and that fits him. You turn your head one minute and that son of a bitch would bound away with a hen in his mouth.

He requests to be called Vincent when they are with others.

Creepy as hell how he turns it on and off. His face goes perfectly kind and he'll shake hands, kiss babies, talk with animation and nodding, insistent interest. Only his eyes don't change. His eyes and that voice, the coldest Moreno has ever known.

Vincent is talking with some traders, some idle chat, standing around with his hands in his pockets, smiling, talking about some shit and the weather, and Vincent's wife, and how he can't wait to get home, she makes this lemon cake from a tree in their yard. ("It grows in your YARD? And you can eat lemons whenever you want?" a little girl asked him from the last post, and the assassin smiled, and said, "Yes, they're so sour, and if you eat too many of them, your face will stick like THIS.")

He is waiting for Moreno to catch his breath. To get on with it. The cold dead eyes watch him.

He looks like a man, talks like one, dresses like one with his brown suit and neatly tied cravat, but he is an animal. A wild animal. When he stops fanning himself with his fedora, Moreno imagines him pulling that hat over black-tipped ears.

He wants the weapons that will turn a man's body to burnt slime.

They stop for water. Then for food. Then for the day. Orion Moreno isn't going to stumble around any longer.

'Vincent' pays for room and board. As he should. Fucker's got his paws on all the gold in Arizona.

They eat. Moreno's damned hungry and the innkeeper's wife makes a good meal. Grubbing around in a shack off Freeside, you don't get to eat right. Don't see much reason to anyway.

He glares down the table at Vulpes Inculta, who holds the knife and fork like a gentleman. He has long hands and fine-boned wrists. Elegant is the word Moreno settles on.

Please and thank you. Sitting tall in his chair. The innkeeper's daughter took the suit jacket from him, and he sits smartly and finely in a white shirt held in by a brown vest.

Moreno is gratified to see crescents of sweat beneath the arms of his shirt. So the son of a bitch is remotely human.

The innkeeper's daughter watches him all the while as they eat. She is pouring water on the counter beside a glass, and does so until she gasps at her mistake. Stupid girl getting moist thighs for that monster.

He wonders if old Vulpes is a queer. Asks him.

"Do you mean strange?"

"Do you like dick is what I meant."

"I like mine." The assassin smiles. His short neat haircut is a shade that is either blond or brown, can't really tell.

Moreno grunts.

The fine-boned wrists turn in and Vulpes cuts an edge off his steak. The man eats neatly, precisely, nip by nip, like a cat, like a fox. "No, I can't say I've ever understood that particular vice," he replies. "Nor why you profligates wear out that question."

"You all hate women. Run around in skirts."

"You feel so strongly about these skirts, Moreno. My." Cutting up his steak. "You know I once knew a dog that hated hats.. "

"You're all a bunch of fags," Moreno mutters. He glances over his shoulder, where the girl still watches in fascination, and then he looks again on that cold thin face. He's not sure if he would call Vulpes pretty, or what to call him. Eerie.

He doesn't think the sick bastard is inclined that way. Or maybe any way. He thinks of a priest he used to know, back in Navarro, handsome and oblivious to the clamoring attention of women, or to good sense, when a dying world needed husbands and babies. Moreno thinks of that man, and his intensity, his obsession, his purity of purpose.

Vulpes Inculta is staring at him. For a moment Moreno forgets entirely what they were talking about, what insults he was throwing around.

"Do you know we have them killed? The ones who are?" The ones who are what? Oh. Oh, that conversation. Odd that it stuck with Vulpes.

The icy eyes watch his face. "They are put to death by crucifixion," he says, and he is holding knife and fork.

Moreno wipes his mouth and says, "You're not telling me they die of irony? Think I'll have a drink."

They drink in Moreno's room after supper. The floorboards creak when Vulpes Inculta leans back in his chair. He rests a snakeskin boot on the small nightstand. A shot of tequila in his long-fingered hand.

Moreno silently begs for the bastard to tip and fall. Moreno himself feels like he'll topple, fat ass planted square on the foot of the bed, burning with whiskey.

He is surprised the legion son of a bitch would indulge in a drink. 'Looks like you know your tequila,' he scoffed, to which Vulpes had lifted an eyebrow airily and answered, 'My dear Moreno, what did you think the lemons were for?'

Now they are drinking, telling stories. Moreno tells war stories and the assassin listens. He still has his vest, his white shirt, and the leather strap of a shoulder holster, but his collar's slightly open. There is a flush of color in his face. Moreno starts to wonder if he'll go down and fuck the innkeeper's daughter. Old man should have watched her. The fox dashing away with a hen in his mouth.

Moreno tells him about this one time, this one mess Daisy flew them into, this one mission-- and Vulpes Inculta laughs like a windchime and seems to hang on every word.

There is a weird sober moment where Orion Moreno realizes he had better shoot him when he has the chance Just point his revolver at the son of a bitch and spray brains on the wallpaper behind his head. He has a weird idea that the eerie laughter would continue, though, that Vulpes Inculta would continue to laugh with a hole between his eyes.

"May I ask you something, Mr. Moreno?"

"Were you there personally.. “ His mouth thins, as though he hesitates on the boundaries of some impropriety. Then he smiles and proceeds nonetheless. "When Chitsa of Arroyo destroyed your oil derrick?”

"Fuck you.”

“I’m only curious.” The assassin clears his shot, gasps softly. “I want to know how it is that a bare-breasted tribal wench brought down the Enclave of the United States of America.”

Moreno gives a rough, bitter laugh. “Sure," he says, “sure, yeah. Fuck it, yeah. She took over the whole base with a spear and her animal friends, tits flying out. Saw the whole thing.”

Inculta watches him with a curious and quiet gaze. Orion has this idea of a dog or a fox or something laying back one ear.

“All those NCR lies, all that shit," Moreno rumbles as he reaches for the bottle. “Making her out to be this Sacagawea Joan of Arc kind of figure.”

Vulpes Inculta toys with the empty shot glass. “So it was the NCR who destroyed your citadel?”

“No.” In his mind's eye he sees that grinning son of a bitch's face, before, and then after. Metal bolted into his skull, giggling and bleeding with yellow teeth. “It was Frank Horrigan.”

“Tell me about Frank Horrigan.”

Vulpes Inculta waits.

Moreno looks into his glass, lifts his failing eyes to the patchy ceiling of the inn. The urge to talk is powerful. To get it off his chest. To tell somebody, anybody. He has lived under so many different names, so many different roofs, when there was shelter at all. He has scraped out a lonely living in the white-hot desert, living in silence and fear, living for the day his door was kicked down. But at least then, face to face with the NCR rifles, he might be able to talk freely one last time. To be unafraid and unashamed of who he was. A man about to die for his country.

A wave of depression washes over him, cold and familiar. He sits here with this monster, this devil, wanting him to understand.

“I have heard that Frank Horrigan was twelve feet tall, made of metal. That he killed deathclaws with his bare hands. That he drank blood and never slept.”

Moreno snorts. “Where'd you hear that.”

The slim little smile appears. “I have heard it.”

“The man was sick in the head, right from the start. Got a leg up 'cause his father served in our senate, but he wasn't fit to wear the armor. You could have had ten other guys in his place. Better ones. I wouldn't have put Frank Horrigan in charge of a lunchbox.”

“Ah, so how is it that he and not this woman Chitsa defeated you?”

Moreno slams back his drink, shakes his head. He’s had enough of that shit and speaks out. "You're hung up on that, aren't you. Her being a woman, like it made a difference." He's known strong females, like Captain Collins in her Tesla suit. Whitman when she was young, knee dug in, pinning Iz to the mat. “Heard you fuckers had a thing against women. Can't wait to find out when that courier gets hold of you.”

The assassin sets down his shot glass. “And which courier do you mean?”

The flash of red hair in the flames, the strident scream through Freeside..

“The one they can't kill.”

The assassin leans forward and the two legs of his chair touch floorboard again. “The courier is male. And men die if Caesar wills them to.”

“You think so?”

Vulpes Inculta makes an elegant gesture with his hand. It is no matter. “We digress on the merest of trivialities. Please continue your story, Mr Moreno." His thin hands come together. “Tell me how Agent Horrigan destroyed your oil derrick.”

Agent. Where was he hearing this. Tribal tales told in the desert? More NCR propaganda?

“Fine. He set off our nuclear reactor. Destroyed everything.”

"And why would he do such a thing?”

Moreno shuts his eyes. “Damned if I know,” he says. "The man was insane. We all knew it. Nobody wanted to serve with that son of a bitch. He was always getting his squadmembers killed. There were so few of us left.. he threw lives away like it was nothing.”

"Ah, yes, on your missions to purge all life from the mainland."

"Don't judge me, you Legion shit. Trampling, burning, raping everywhere you go.”

“We are tireless in our struggle against the profligates, but we bring all others beneath our banners. We are the light that holds back the darkness. The torch of Mars.”

“Right, that sick Butcher of yours, and all the fucking cannibals down in Cottonwood Cove.”

It's so quick you would miss it, but Moreno's an old man, seen a lot of shit in all the long decades. He’s seen it before, the flash of uncertainty in the face of official orders. He takes a moment to fill his glass again, as much to stretch out that moment as anything else. He’ll need the burn of alcohol to get all this story out, and anyway, let the knife twist a little in that awkward silence.

He has come to realize that there is a common spark between them.

“We were gonna clear out the mainland. That's true. None of us liked it. The missions were hell. But there’s things you have to do for the greater good. Did I like putting them down? No, hell no... but we were playing for the highest stakes. The survival of mankind was worth that price a thousand times. We sold our soul for the dream of coming back to the continent.. cleaning up, building back." Israel used to ask them their names. Said softly he would want a memorial made for them some day. So that future generations would know the cost. He sold his soul for that dream like the rest of them. But was it just a dream.

Orion needs his drink.

"We found out a way to do it quick. Humane. Our scientists found a way to euthanize them by some airborne means. I don't know the details. But we were going to clear out all the infected, the mutated, all of it. We were going to make the mainland clean. No more suffering than there had to be. Hell, they worked years on it, decades. But that wasn't enough for fucking Frank Horrigan. He wanted them to suffer. He fucking loved it, got off on it. I guess nobody in Richardson's circle told him what kind of a shit Horrigan really was. I don't know if he knew that, just that Horrigan got done whatever he ordered him to. Just not how he did it. The man was a monster. God damn, we were so glad when he died the first time.”

Vulpes Inculta does not take his eyes from Moreno. Feels like the cold blue slivers see his soul. “Everyone comes back from the dead these days," he murmurs as he reaches a slim hand for tequila.

“The bastard fucked up on his mission, got all his guys killed. I had friends on that team. Hurt they were gone, but damned if we didn't drink to old Horrigan, dead at last." Moreno can't look at the attentive face before him. "You know he used to rip babies from their mothers, throw them, see if he could shoot them before they hit the ground? Hell, maybe that doesn't shock you at all."

"The young are to be rescued. They can be saved. The corruption is of the mind and soul."

“Right, is it true that fucker in Cottonwood pays to eat them? I only get snatches of gossip these days.”

There is a twitch beneath the young man's eye. “But Frank Horrigan didn't die then, did he," he says.

Just as Moreno thought.

He smirks. “I remember when he came clanking back into the squad bay. Breathing real heavy and wet. Ready for the next mission. Conversation stopped everywhere. Nobody knew what to say. Hell, not even a peep from the senate. Don’t know what they did to bring that monster back.”

“I heard they bolted him into the armor," Vulpes Inculta tells him. “I heard they bolted it into his face.”

“Where did you hear that. NCR?"

The fox smiles. “Please continue.”

“Not much more than that. We had our plan, our mission. We had a way to clear out the wasteland and bring back hope. It was going to spread over the continent, the world, like the healing hand of God. But fucking Horrigan brought the enemy right back to our base, a bunch of fucking tribals, riff-raff, a deathclaw. He brought a deathclaw back to our home base!”

“The White Shadow," purrs Inculta, like those red eyes were known to him.

“It was a nightmare," is all Orion can say.

A silence falls between them, with Vulpes waiting, watching, and Moreno drinking. On a breath more ragged than he intended, Orion gulps his drink, says, “Richardson might have thought Horrigan got results, Horrigan was his best, Horrigan followed all his orders.. but he didn't realize Horrigan was out of control til too late. Hell, if he even knew it at all. I don't know why Horrigan did what he did. Horrigan was a sick raping, murdering fuck like the rest of you. Maybe he couldn't take being killed by a woman. Maybe it was just him being crazy. But when he died he set the reactor to self destruct.”

Moreno thinks of the sirens, the sweeping red lights in the corridors, the fires, the shrieking tribals, the moaning of the wounded, and the albino deathclaw shaking off the sedatives-- they had forgotten all about that horrifying captive. “So Horrigan dragged our home down to hell with him.”

Vulpes Inculta smiles. “I wonder, did you consider yourselves tainted for having come onto the mainland without protection? When you fled to Navarro.”

“There were suicides. Congress wrote up a bill real fast, saying we’d probably be all right, but we had to stick together.” Orion shakes his head. “I think we could have made it work. Maybe. But the NCR blew out that light. They killed Iz, Ryan, Cooper, then the rest of us.”

“Edwin Cooper betrayed you.”

Orion's eyes snap up to meet those of the assassin. "How do you know?” He always thought. He always suspected..

Inculta smiles, beautiful and cold, like a fallen angel. “I know. It is said he tired of fighting for your lost cause. Saw no future in it. No point. When he whispered in the Bear’s ear, they gave him a two-story house in California wine country, a new name, a blond wife, full amnesty at the shake of the President's hand. He may still live there yet today.”

“You're lying.” He thinks of Israel standing on the vertibird strut for the last time. His sharp salute, his final one.

The asassin permits a small shrug. Downs his shot.

“Where did you hear that?”

It wasn't until later that Orion understood the answer, until the fate of the California Republic revolved around something terrible half-forgotten and uncovered by the sands.

Inculta tells him, “I have heard it in the voices of the dead," and takes his leave.

That night Moreno dreams of fire and alarms. Shrieking tribals. A woman with wild eyes, Daniel Bird blinking on his knees, and a strange soft noble voice that said, No Chitsa, not like this, or we will all die together.

He sleeps poorly and sooner than later, the sun blares in his window. A pain throbs in his head.

Vincent Fox is already downstairs at the table, dressed sharp, watching the eyes of the innkeeper's daughter as she pours him his coffee.

...

By eight in the morning the heat is already oppressive. The desert engulfs them.

Moreno thinks of the deal he might make with Caesar. The thing he might want. He runs the rumor through his head, the thought of Kimball speaking at the dam. His voice reaching out across the radio.

There will always be more. Another suit standing by in the wings, waiting back in California. Or here and now. General Oliver.

Moreno doesn't want to die. Doesn't want to live a broken old man, though, clinging to a faded dream. The dream is gone. All will be forgotten. The future is dead. He'll go down fighting.

He is sad to see it out like this, though, trading military hardware for his revenge. Indulged by some jumped-up madman Caesar. These bastards won't live out ten years, though, not even five. No one will remember them. They have a monster of their own.

“We’re here," Moreno tells him when it's time. He wipes a wash of sweat off his face. "You think about killing me, taking the weapons, you'd better think again. You'll get locked in and then I guess your bones can have all the guns they want. You wait a minute out here and I'll call you down.”

Vulpes Inculta smiles. The reflections in his sunglasses throw back Moreno's haggard face. “But of course.”

Moreno tries to think of the last time he hauled his fat ass down this ladder, down into this crevice. No matter how long it's been, though, he’ll never forget the password in. The familiar hiss of the doors.

Out of habit he checks the paper logs to see who came here last. Recognizes the kid's callsign, his horrible handwriting. What did he come in here for, and why so recent after so long a time?

A sudden ugly thought. Did Arcade come to sell their equipment? Did he take out weapons? He has a flash of fear: have I brought that legion fuck down to an empty bunker? Has Arcade been picking through their supplies, their legacy? Did he sell his birthright for wasted medicine? He was always helping those sorry fucks, those sacks of shit shooting up out there in Freeside.

Then Orion feels shame. The weapons are still there, all of them, as a quick check confirms. The kid took out one of those old ammo cans of his. The ones with books in it. Like that even mattered anymore. Like keeping them safe, copying them by hand, like that could hold back the tide of oblivion.

Sorry, Iz. I tried to help him best I could. Tried to bring him up right.

"All right," Moreno calls out.

Inculta foregoes the ladder and drops down neat on his shoes. Stands and walks in.

The doors hiss shut behind him, and Moreno is gratified to see him jump slightly. Creepy fucker. This is my world now.

The tribal slides off his sunglasses to look into darkness, and Orion spies a moment of wonder on his face, taking in the glowing holo display, the ready room, the waiting suits of armor and racks of weaponry. Moreno begins to lay out some of the weaponry to be reviewed.

“This is just the blink of an eye of what we could have had," Moreno tells him. "Go ahead and look around. Take it in.”

Orion Moreno does not know if Vulpes Inculta experiences any human emotion, but Orion thinks if he did, he would be amazed.

He thinks of a fox hunting about on soft paws, nosing through everything, quick and attentive.

“Who are the others that wear these suits," the assassin asks him. For some reason it seems odd that Inculta leaves breath on the glass display when he leans in close to look.

“Other squad members. Our fire team. Our pilot. Our medic.”

There is a sharpness in his eye that Moreno does not like. Fox ears pricking up. “And this medicus, he is trained by your people?”

“NCR killed all our doctors and scientists. Ours went with the Followers."

Orion thinks of Arcade out there in Freeside, diligently wasting his time and rare medicine with the junkies. Why help people who will destroy themselves? Aren't the remnants of the human race more deserving? All those people barely holding on, gripping tightly to the will to live?

"Where is he?”

There is a brief ugly moment where Moreno looks into the legionary's eyes.

Moreno turns away to the weaponry. He’ll take down an energy rifle, load a cell in. Give Inculta a taste. “I took you down here to show you what I had to offer," he says. "To show you I mean business. Old Bill is gonna have to knock my socks off.”

“Are you not sated by the blood of Aaron Kimball? At his moment of glory on Hoover Dam?”

“That’s the thing you Legion shits don't understand about leadership. Not so much the man as his position. I take down Aaron Kimball, another springs up in his place. Not like your Legion, when you lost your officers at Boulder City four years ago. Heard you all ran around like scared little boys when First Recon came out to play." A grim smile as Moreno chambers a round. “Hell, I think you're still recovering from that one.”

“The Legion is as strong as ever before. We cull our weak, not coddle them as other peoples do.”

“Be interesting to see what happens when Caesar dies. Heard he's been sick.” Moreno aims the rifle, fires. The flash of plasma proves the weapon’s worth, and Inculta blinks. He has this feeling that he's starting to get the fucker off guard, though the cool eyes betray nothing.

“The gods favor our lord, though there will be a time when they call his spirit home to glory.”

“Uh huh. Legion's gonna tear itself apart before the flies even land on his corpse.”

He smirks, knowing the assassin struggles for something to say to that. So the young man fears it's true. Inculta has gone back to staring at the display of armor, his face turned away.

“Well, you're in luck, you'll need good guns like these to take down the Monster of the East.” Moreno slings the rifle over his shoulder. “ That is, if your Great Caesar can convince me he's got something worth my while. Kind of tugs at my heartstring to hand over good American technology to some silly fuckers like you." He smiles. There’s one more thing. “Let me show you something else.”

Vulpes continues to stare at the suits til the last moment when he turns on his heel to follow Orion into the next chamber.

The one with the helipad.

Moreno throws the switches that light up the vertibird. He says, “You see this gunship? We have a little woman who flew this thing like nobody’s business. Thought you'd like to know that. Thought that would blow your skirt up.”

He thinks he senses a tribal apprehension about the man, so for fun, a mean stab of bitterness-- is this what it's come to-- Moreno gallivants on over to the vertibird to turn on the engine. Just a little, give him a show.

Vulpes Inculta stares wide-eyed once the props start to turn, whooshing and swooshing in the subterranean bunker built before the war. The sound fills the cavern.

“Mr Moreno," the assassin calls out.

Orion sees more than hears him trying to speak. He puts a hand onto the console to kill the engine. Almost smirks to see Inculta's hat half blown away.

“Mr Moreno," he says, slowly, carefully. “I know something that will interest you."

“Better be good.”

“Frank Horrigan underwent months of horrific surgery and experiments. It was believed that he was exposed to the vats that make men into mutants.” Inculta looks into his eyes. “Richardson knew, and allowed it.”

“How do you know that?"

"The same way I know that the White Shadow spoke to your forces in the citadel. That it talked in the voice of a man."

No, Chitsa. Not like this, or we will all die together.

Before Moreno can wonder how he could ever know these things, Vulpes Inculta closes the distance and stands before him, strangely earnest, his face intense. “The NCR put your personnel to questioning. They were interrogated for years-- decades, some of them. Deprivation and torture and games of the mind. Held forever with no hope of release.”

“I know that. We all figured. How'd you.. “

The words come out coldly, quickly now. "There are records, Orion Moreno. Holotapes. I have heard them myself. Confessions, weeping, questions, forced confessions, histories, whole biographies and missions. Banks of knowledge committed to record. There is a man who refuses to answer any questions he is asked, and speaks instead in endless equations, factoids, scraps of knowledge he fears will be lost forever."

“Where would you get those?”

Inculta shows sharp teeth in a smile, a mystified smile, as though one loose end has finally come to its true purpose. “They were unearthed in a forgotten outpost, sent for storage in the back of beyond. One of our centurions found them, brought them back, and played out their terrible secrets. There is still much in them I haven't heard. I.. was reluctant to know. But now I understand why the Trickster blessed and cursed him with that discovery. The Poseidon and Navarro sessions. Voices from the underworld.”

Moreno can hardly believe that could be true. But how else? How else could Vulpes Inculta know these things? Does Caesar know?

Looking into the young man's face, his eyes, Moreno sees something wild and afraid, and knows the truth. “You have these tapes.”

“I can have them brought to you. They have waited for you, yes?”

“How much feed is on them?”

“I can't say. Seems they go on forever." The young man's eyes are bright. “Perhaps you will reconsider your destiny upon the dam."

Moreno swallows around the lump in his throat. “Even if I had these things.. " He can't let his emotions take him over. Has to look at things the right way. “There’s no chance to build anything back now. We're past gone. We're done.”

“But you shall go down fighting. There is honor in that.”

“I won't go quiet.”

“No. No, you won't. Not when you take his life at the moment of his glory. You will strike out like the bite of a serpent and what comes after will follow like fatal poison. No one will remember the speech that he gives, no matter how far and wide his words are taken across the radio. All they will remember are the voices that play across the waves.. The stories of torture and mental anguish. The knowledge that was lost with all the scientists and doctors. The people of the Bear will get to hear, in excruciating detail that cannot be stopped or silenced, how it was that their leaders extinguished all hope for their civilization.”

Vulpes Inculta has the eyes of an animal, a demon. “Perhaps they will ask why," he purrs.

Orion thinks this last ditch strike. This rending blow into the legitimacy of their vault-hatched regime. He thinks of Israel Gannon standing on the strut. His final salute. “I'll.. I'll have to talk with the others.” He doesn't have to tell them about Kimball. Knows already what they'll say. But his mind on that is made. “This changes things.”

“We await the response of the Enclave of the United States of America.”


	6. Chapter 6

The Muse Polyhymnia does not know how much time has come and gone. The seasons are all hot, and no one knows the date. To these men it is three decades into the New Calends, in the Age of Mars, in the Year of Conquest when the red tide of the Legion will wash like blood across the Mojave.

It has been months. A year? Has it been two years? Longer?

She can't even tell time by her bleeding, by the fading pain in her breasts. The horrible thing that had happened to her body and soul.

Tonight she sees the moon from the pit. A sliver of moon in the sky, cold and distant, and stars that shine far from the misery of earth.

She is struggling to remember why she has been cast into the pit. A smart remark she has made. Perhaps she smirked at him the wrong way, at his snub-nosed prick. Sometimes he is angry with her when he goes soft unexpectedly. She should have known better to have laughed. She should know better by now, well into her thirties, a woman used all her life by this kind of man. They all held delusions of grandeur, and his are no different.

She hates the pit. The stink. The silence. At least up in the tents there is constant sound of industry. Men talking. Children shouting. Babies crying. Babies. The clang of metal. She's always hated quiet.

Mama speaks in the silence.

Mama's voice rings in the pit as it rang in the mission, wild and crazy, jibbering madness about hellfire and punishment. Too much fucking, too many babies. A blood-drinking Christ she does not recognize.

Mama always called her a harlot, a whore. The woman seated upon the beast.

She has no rejoinder. Can't argue with Mama, so she sings softly to blot out her voice. Softly but steady. She goes through the songs that she knows, the songs from the radio of her youth, songs from the cocktail lounges, songs from the church Sundays she used to sing at for a time, the theme song of the Billy Bear and Jenny Show, songs about being so lonesome you could cry, songs where spurs go jingle jangle jingle.

She hears the sybil far-off. A woman with a voice that rises and falls, screeches and breaks. A woman she hates, a woman she dimly knows once tried to have her killed.

Her voice has grown hoarse, her mouth dry. She is so thirsty, but the water she stands in will make her sick. She learned her lesson from before. She has nearly died enough times to wonder why she bothers.

She will never leave the Fort alive.

But she is afraid to die, and fears what will come after.

She has a vague idea later that Lucius comes to get her. The man reminds her the hens from the mission yard, puffed out, clucking angrily, pecking intermittently, forced to deal with her. 'I have no time for the foolishness of women,' he always thundered. 'Come now, stop your weeping.' But blond curls swim in her vision and she thinks, it is the other one, the one no more than a boy.

She is being splashed in and out of water. A tub. She wants to drink it in, but he doesn't let her, (you'll get sick, domina) and while the grim-faced women scratch at her skin and tear at her hair, the new praetorian goes to fetch her something clean to drink.

Sextus. That is his name. He cradles her skull as he holds a clay decanter to her lips, helps her drink the coldness in. For a dizzy moment she forgets where she is and rests in the big strong hand that holds her up. But he is speaking and his voice transitions into words.

"Did you see the lights last night? The flashes in the sky?" he asks her. "They came out when you were singing."

She moans softly in reply.

"It's all the Hill can talk about," he says and smiles, winks. "Centurion Rutilius couldn't be more jealous. He is taking the Cyclopes across tomorrow and we have forgotten all about him. He's there strutting in his polished armor and we don't see him for the skies."

Across. Across. Across.

Across the river to Cottonwood Cove. Gruesome Aurelius. His unnatural appetites. Another centuria sent into Nevada.

"I will leave you women now," Sextus tells her. "I've brought the dress that my lord wishes you to wear, and one of your masks also. Might I say I like this one best."

Esperanza remembers what she said to him now.

"Ya know, kid, the Kings are all frauds same as you, but I tell you, they sure knew how to show a girl a good time."

She may have said something about a little less conversation and a little more action, but his face darkened with horrible apoplectic rage and it gets hazy after that.

He reminds her of her first husband, the first one she counted. Shortish, fattish, always sweating, with irrational tantrums. He always foisted clothes off on her, dressed her with the singlemindedness of a girl with a doll. Then he raged when she towered over him in high heels, when men looked at her, when he felt she would slip away.

She hadn't run around on her first husband. Too afraid. She'd come staggering out of the wastes in a moth-eaten dress she took off a skeleton. He'd taken her in, dressed her, fed her, made her. He'd heard her singing on the street, swept her up, and plunked her on a stage. She wanted to sing on the radio, but he wanted her to be seen. Some of the time.

Life had been good for awhile. Singing, drinking clean water, eating food. Routine and schedules. Cosmetics. She even sat down to write a letter to the Followers of the Apocalypse, a letter to Dr. Dreckenstein, the man she thought was her father. Life was good, and all she had to do was tolerate the grunts and pushes of a grumpy old man.

And then one day he grunted, pushed, gasped, and turned redder in the face than she'd ever seen before. A rope of drool came out his mouth and anchored on her upper lip. His body squashed into her, and a wave of horror passed over. Later the coroner said he'd had a heart attack. Only two years her senior, his son had smirked and said he'd gone the way he'd wanted to go. And his old wife screeched she killed him, she'd murdered him, the tramp, murdered him for his money.

All her husbands were dead now. They used to call her a black widow. She hadn't meant for any of them to die, had never wanted it, but it had happened. Mama had screamed in the ruins that she had been cursed, that she was hated by God, and she was beginning at long last to believe it.

Esperanza has him figured out. Mostly.

He's the kind of man who wants to be respected, feared, but loved, too, there's a streak of insecurity that goes a mile long. She gets this idea that he's the kind of guy who got laughed at a lot and now he's out for revenge. You have to flatter his ego, fluff him up, stroke him when he needs it, which was always.

When he stretches out with her on the bed and tells her about his conquests, she's supposed to run her hand down his arm and say how mighty he is, how blessed by the gods. Everyone else coos and fawns, throws themselves down at his sandals. She wonders if he believes it. And doesn't think he does.

Four years ago he tried that shit on Vegas. Tried to push across the Dam, and did, so long as the NCR allowed. They had this Plan. Wasn't until his army of nasty little boys got to Boulder City that it all blew up, and with all the officers dead or dying, the Legion cried and tumbled with skinned knees and snotty noses.

Then First Recon rose from the shadows, grim and terrible, like a drunken stepfather taking out his belt. The rest is history, kid.

She heard his Number Two used to be some Mormon missionary. Heard the tribals captured them all. Did things. She heard they lost their mind in the desert. Lost the fear of the almighty. That they decided they would no longer follow the laws of Man and God and do whatever it was they wanted, that they would take whatever they wanted. And they did.

Looking around she saw none of the faces from the old NCR propaganda. No Graham, no Calhoun, no Robinson. She learned these names were never to be spoken by anyone else. All she saw were wild boys pretending they were civilized, like leather skirts and a red cloak made them a man, like the Lost Boys swirling round Peter Pan.

She doesn't care he fucks her anymore. It was worse before. Hands on her body, pulling her hair, pulling her apart, a pain that turned everything to white. She feared she would be pregnant from the ones that didn't splash in her eyes, her hair, her face.

But laying there for Caesar, in Caesar's bed-- (your destiny awaits you)-- she no longer wakes with the knifing terror that a new life has taken root. Mighty Caesar has conquered 86 tribes and untold hundreds of women, but he has failed to produce a single child. Throughout the decades of his power trip, his revenge fantasy on the women who laughed at him-- that one Follower woman that still lives in his complaints-- there has been nothing, no girl, no boy, no flesh and blood heir.

She knows he is sick. Dying, maybe. There are times when he cannot rise from the bed with his headaches, and Lucius hauls her away. There are times when his speech becomes confused. He asked for a woman named Silva recently, took Lucius by the gauntlet and told him to summon her right off.

'She has gone across the river, my lord,' Lucius had told him, with a flash of worry.

'Out to Cottonwood, with the Minotaurs?'

'Domine no, Silva is dead.'

'Dead how, Lucius!' he had gasped with a flash of anger, and the praetorians were all eyes and open mouths, a series of pointed looks between them.

'Vulpes Inculta, my lord,' the man called Alero had whispered. 'It was Vulpes Inculta who killed her.'

And Caesar flushed red with rage and demanded, 'Bring me his head,' a missive which evaporated only a half-hour later. Sopping a bloody nose with some cloth, moaning from his headache, Caesar muttered to Lucius-- how had he forgotten Silva died? Robinson's girl. Knew her from this big. Has Vulpes come back yet? Did he find the Americans, did he get me a doctor?

Part of her, the girl who walked barefoot through the desert, that part thinks she can bide her time. Wait it out. Wait for the Legion to fall apart when he dies, like Mama's slaughtered chickens running round without their heads. She knows he fears death, feels it breathing softly on his neck. Why he wants that heir so badly, that spoiled man who if he was healthy would not want a competitor for adulation.

But then Esperanza thinks of the man that has no face. Dreams of it. Her old radio songs might have won some strange place in Caesar's favor, but Lanius goes unmoved by music, by art, by any kind of human decency or emotion. He will do as the sybil screeches all along-- he will sacrifice her to the gods. Not because the sybil screamed for him to do so (she knows he will kill the sybil the moment he can) but because his gods thirst for blood.

The gods of the Butcher are not even the gods of Rome, of the Legion. Esperanza thinks she knows the gods the faceless man talks about, thinks she may have seen them once, heard them once, flickering and whispering when she killed her mother in the shadows of the mission.


	7. Chapter 7

Caesar idly wonders how and when so many stammering virgins came to join the ranks of the frumentarii.

His eyes affixed to some point in the sky, Alerio clasps his hands behind his back and continues, “Ah, regarding news from Picus at McCarran. The NCRCF facility has been retaken and the Powder Gang is no more.”

“What about their,” Caesar grunts, “their legendary explosives?”

“We’re looking into that, domine. In all the confusion we may be able to acquire some of our own.”

Caesar nods tightly, sweat dripping from his temple. “Yes,” he gasps. “That.”

No, not you, Polyhymnia. He means the dynamite, but his muse rolls her hips again in just that way, and he can’t hold back his groan.

“Uhh, amm.. “ Alerio blinks, looks, and looks back to the sky again. “As for routine McCarran business. Picus reports widespread shortages of rations and basic equipment, complicated by some sort of logistics issue regarding the Red River Caravan company.”

Caesar huffs, “So what, they’ll be conserving ammunition? Cutting back on their patrols?” He tries to concentrate. Why is this man Alerio here, why are any of these men here.

“There is talk of moving their supplies through contracted means.”

“Courier service?”

“Yes my lord, some. Picus also.. “

Caesar groans. Why didn’t I take off my armor for this. Why did I have to look majestic. By mid-morning he’s already baking, but he’s committed now, reclining on his throne with Polyhymnia balanced on his thighs. They’ve cleaned her well, perhaps a bit too well, as he can see the abrasive marks from the other womens’ vengeful scrubbing. (“Er, ah, my lord, Picus reports also that the supplies.. “) The red clay mask hides her ruined face as the wispy gown reveals her body. Even at her age, her body is beautiful, and she moves with enthusiasm this morning, a rare moment of cooperation. The night in the pit has done her well.

"..supplies are due to some clerical error. A mistake in the papers. There is talk of firing their chief supply officer and replacing him with the one at Mojave Outpost.”

"Why… nng.. do I care, Alerio?”

Thick black hair tickles his mouth every time she bounces.

“The major there keeps a tight account of everything. He would straighten out their supply issues. However if, if he left, the Mojave Outpost would need a new officer and the shift in command would leave it vulnerable. You wish to push west from Nipton, domine?”

Now he sees it, of course. Now he sees why that would be important. Hard to think when Alerio blushes and stammers. Hard to think when his muse squeezes so tightly. “That is the idea."

Sending his men across the dam as they push out from Cottonwood Cove. He’ll have the Minotaurs and Cyclopes, a whole cohort strength there. Where to put the Hell Hounds. Send them across the dam, or send them west from Nipton? Could they be trusted so far alone? But then, was that not their original purpose? They will not trust him.

Deflect the blame. Make it their commander’s fault, have him executed. That is the price of failure. That is its price.

Alerio continues to speak but the words fall away to a roaring in his ears. There is a pressure behind his eye and he can see nothing, burying his face into her hair and shoulder.

When Caesar yells, a blacksmith’s hammer stops somewhere down below.

Alerio is frozen to his spot.

Lucius sighs. Ignatius smirks.

There is a dizzy moment where he takes in his bearings again, and the young praetorian has brought them water to drink, the new one with the scar on his face. Looks purple against his fair skin, but his ears burn red.

Polyhymnia takes her clay cup and slides off him, settling his armor with the brush of her hand. She walks away, though he has not dismissed her yet. Has to catch his breath.

She recedes into his private chamber, and he watches her, thinks the son they make will be dark like she is.

Caesar drinks two mouthfuls from his cup and drizzles the remainder over his face. With a loud groan, he demands, “Now.. where is the envoy from the Khans?”

Alerio hesitates. “Delayed, domine,” he says.

Catching sight of the flicker across the young man’s face, his first thought is: did Aurelius eat him? “What’s the cause?”

“The Khan envoy said that the lights in the sky were a message from the spirit world. He said he had to talk to the elders about what it meant.”

“He’s still down in Cottonwood?”

“No, he loped off like some animal.”

Caesar sighs. It will be days before he hears from them again. If at all, he thinks darkly. There is something coy and womanish in his dealings with the Khan ambassador. He doesn’t like it, and not this tribal superstition.

Aware that searching eyes are upon him, Caesar makes himself smile and say, “He should have asked me. The lights were muzzle flashes from the God of War. Mars is pleased with his children and looks down on our preparations.”

Sextus smiles, nods a tight singular nod of his head.

He does not know what the lights meant. Didn’t see them himself, sleeping fitfully with a wet cloth over his eyes. The Sybil will find some nonsense in this, for sure. She is quickly becoming a problem, but how to--

“And ah, also news on the courier, as you requested my lord.”

How to kill the Sybil without spooking the rest of these half-savages. He should have never allowed her to gain so much power in their minds. “Remind me.”

“My lord wished to know what the courier has done with the NCR bounties.”

Caesar remembers now. Some wandering mongrel of a mailman has done what platoons of NCR soldiers could not do: bring justice to three of the fiends that terrorized the Mojave.

When Caesar motions a hand for him to continue, Alerio reports, “Medicines and vegetables, apparently, handed out to the poor. She has also been seeing a tailor and been measured for new clothes.”

New clothes. New clothes? “Exciting.”

“We will keep you informed, my lord.”

Trying to remember why he gave a shit about.. ah. “Have the Chairmen had her killed yet?" A pause. “Him yet?”

“No, my lord, not since I have returned.”

She. Her. Him. Caesar squints. He is certain the individual is male.

“Describe this courier to me. I want to know if we're talking about the same one.”

"A loud woman with red hair, about thirty-five. She is a drunk slattern with no husband, but she travels with three men and a ghoul.”

“I thought one of you told me the courier was a man. The one that was shot.”

“Ah.. my lord. We will clarify."

When they were alone, Caesar grunts, “Alerio thinks he'll take over for Vulpes, and he can't even tell me if someone is a man or a woman.”

“Kid just doesn’t know Vegas,” comes Esperanza’s sly reply. “You gotta look for the Adam’s Apple… or you learn the hard way.”

...

Before she was the sybil, she was princess of a tribe whose king would not bow to the Legion banner. They held a rough patch of territory hardly worth the effort of taking it. Joshua Graham argued against the whole campaign, and Calhoun backed down, content with the beauties he had captured.

But Caesar hated the tribe's defiance, their taunting messages. He no longer remembered their name, but he remembered their envoy, decked out in grouse feathers and a bandolier, telling him that the gods laughed at the balding man with the woman's skirt.

The princess had come to them of her own free will. She was gorgeous and blonde with taut tanned thighs, looking wild and wonderful in animal skins. With no fear of his praetorians, she approached him and reached for him, saying his was the face she had seen in her dream.

She told him that the gods of her people were wicked gods, that they lived in trickery and fed on despair. Long had her people suffered in the desert, digging for water, dying from the glowing sickness. They were gods as cruel and fickle as women.

Stroking his face, the princess told him she dreamed of a god who was a man.

She showed them the hidden passage through the rocky defile, and in one night, the defiance of her people was broken. Caesar put them to the sword, and when he found the king of the tribe and his wives and his sons, he put them against the canyon wall and had his men switch to rifles.

It was a night of fire, and the princess became their oracle. Caesar made her the chief priestess of his own personal cult, bestowing on her some scraps of influence and power among the new legionaries. There was still a tribal superstition among some of the men, and the sybil would see signs and portents as required. She would say what Caesar wanted her to say.

Back then, when he was tired of her, he would pass her between Graham, Calhoun, and Robinson, and they would all have a good smirk and laugh, showing off scratches or bites. Chuckling at the things that she said. ("She told me she dreamed a mighty serpent that stretched out across the desert," Calhoun told them once, smirking hard, kicked back in their officer's tent. Graham, ever the wit, replied: "Ah, but it was only a dream.")

"I'm too goddamn tired to march anymore," Robinson whined one time. "And this water's giving me the squirts. Hey Bill, have Coochie dance up and down and say Mars demands a sacrifice or some shit." Her name had been Kuchirah or Kuchna or something like that.

"I could go for a barbecue," Graham laughed.

And so it was.

But now all those men were dead. Graham, thrown into the divide. Calhoun with his throat cut open. Robinson gurgling from poison. Now they were all dead, and there was no one to joke with. The sybil raved, and when she spoke, men listened. When she pointed her finger, men shrank away or drew blades as directed.

She had once called for the death of a woman captive, and her wild shrieks had been obeyed by no less than a centurion. The sybil declared that the woman was to be given to Mars, that every moment she lived she brought misfortune upon them.

Surrounded by a number of jeering Minotaurs, attacked by scratching, spitting, hissing priestesses, the wounded woman stood her ground, naked and bloody, half-falling down in mud and shit. She caught the whip the first time Aurelius struck out at her, but not the second or third.

Caesar would have let it run its course-- there had been some unusual deaths and the half-tamed Minotaurs were whimpering for some excuse. He would have let it go on-- he shuddered now to think-- but then the woman spoke, and her screaming invective fired a dormant memory.

He realized the dying woman was no less than Esperanza Bonita, the washed-up radio singer!

The sybil had been bitterly opposed to his decision to spare her. But old Coochie didn't get a say in this.

The sybil stands before them at the crossroads now.

She stands bare-breasted, her body streaked with whorls of dried mud, a necklace of little bird skulls hanging in garlands around her neck. Nearing fifty, the color has faded from her hair, but she wears a metal band of gold in her wild mane.

Caesar stifles a groan at the sight of her. He had brought out his hunting party for a diversion by the lake, farther off from the stink of the Fort, and here she is, waving her arms in mystical patterns and bringing forth bullshit he doesn't need right now.

The waving arms turn to points, and she narrows in on the tall form of Esperanza Bonita, who has been permitted for the first time to leave the walls.

Centurion Rutilius is standing nearby, and when this happens, he scrambles away as though he will be infected. In fact, they all stand wider apart from Caesar's muse, even the praetorians.

Singled out, Polyhymnia pays the sybil back in kind; she folds in the middle and ring fingers of her right hand and turns a twisting devil's hook on the sybil.

"Putting a curse right back on ya, bitch," Esperanza hisses. "You're gonna get yours, honey."

"The gods have written their message in the skies," comes the plaintive voice of the sybil. For a woman who had been so beautiful, it was strange she spoke in such a screechy voice.

"So I've seen," Caesar grunts. "The lights were the muzzle flashes of the God of War." Right, that's what he said they were. He feels an ache behind his eye.

"The god demands a sacrifice."

"And I will offer him one." Caesar gives a grand gesture to the host of armored warriors, resplendent praetorians, body-slaves and other hangers-on he has brought with him in his hunting party.

"There must be blood," the sybil croaks, and her wild eyes roll upon the Muse. "This woman must be given to the gods."

He has no time for this shit.

Caesar makes a sweeping motion of his hand and pitches his voice for all to hear. "If Mars desires this woman," he declares, and his voice rings out across the sandy wash, "then he will come and take her himself."

There is nothing the sybil can say to that for now, and Polyhymnia, sensing her moment, begins to mutter behind her eerie mask. She advances slowly from the group and bears in on the sybil, speaking in her most ominous tone of voice.

In light of all that happened with the Minotaurs, one of the things that had frightened them most was how their dying captive spoke the sacred language.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, amen."

Now the sybil shrinks back as if burned, the praetorians struggle against their fear, and Caesar holds back a smirk and almost wishes Graham were here. Graham would have laughed and said something like, 'a hispanic Catholic? No, never, who knew?' He would have appreciated the stupidity of the moment as grown men gave into superstition. Had he not fought thirty years to make them better than this.

When he takes her hand and leads her away down the trail, with only the first startled praetorians beginning to follow, Caesar says to her, "Well done.. now was that the voice of the witch from that radio show that you did?"

"Yeah, the Witch from Bryce Canyon," she grunts.

"What was the name of that serial." Had something to do with a donkey. Some boy's adventure show on the radio. The pain behind his eye is fading now, and he feels his mood restoring.

Esperanza sighs. Her one good eye rolls behind the mask that hides her ruined face. He doesn't normally like to stand so close to her, since she towers over his bald spot, but he is starting to enjoy the fearful way that the others react to her. "It was the Adventures of Billy Bear and Jenny the Mule, came on five fifteen every Thursday."

Caesar smiles. "And you were Jenny the Mule."

"Look, kid.. a girl's got to eat."

Watching color come at last back into the faces of his guards, and spying the sybil skittering away across the wash, vengeful and wicked, old Bill gets an idea, a good one, and he wishes Graham were here to hear it.


	8. Chapter 8

Mostly her men had been old. Hadn't bothered her.

From her first years in the crumbling mission when her mother sent her outside to play, relations with men had always been cast as a transaction. It was just how it was done in the wasteland.

Her second husband had been a charming old devil. She remembered his winning smile, the flash of rings on his hands when he talked. He had just a bit of black left in his beard and mustache, all trimmed neat. Everything neat and sharp about his appearance. She'd wanted for nothing up until the end, when he lost his fortunes, lost everything. Some younger, meaner son of a bitch took him down, the way it went in a world after everything burned.

She went running back to the city of her first husband. Tried to find some aid from her step-son, who just smoked slowly in his office while she related her whole sad story, and then he smirked and told her to take off her top.

She ran away again, but the top came off eventually.

New Reno, that damned theater, and her next stage name Esmerelda.

A string of lovers. A string of new names.

When she was turned down for an audition, losing the place to some younger, prettier girl, she was recommended to a fellow in need for a girl "just like you." They needed a female voice with "vivacity and stubbornness".. for some damn radio serial. The Adventures of Billy the Bear and Jenny the Mule. So she did Jenny the Mule and other voices.. had some fun with it, near the end, til Billy the Bear drank so damn much he couldn't even mumble anymore into the microphone.

She married a radio station man some time after that. Divorced. Maybe her only husband still alive.

Some of her songs had been memorable but never quite star material. She didn't know what she was missing. Something off. Maybe she just wasn't young enough, shrewd enough. Didn't make the right connections. Her bleak childhood at the outskirts of a ruined civilization had not prepared her for the wheeling and dealing of a cutthroat social scene.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was why nothing seemed to go right.

Mama told her she didn't have a soul.

A blind drunk soldier told her once, while he pissed on an alley wall, "Just sound nervous.. get your breathing right and try it again. You'll get it, Jenny."

She never quite made it in show business.. and in the end, that was all right.

...

Esperanza breathes clean air and lounges on a chaise the slaves have brought out for her. Like a long line of ants they toil to bring down supplies and refreshments from the Hill, the legs of tables waving in the air, and red sheets of tents flapping in the wind.

There is to be some kind of entertainment and feasting tonight, even if the hunting party disappoints. It won't. Even with Caesar's vaunted mastery of arms, there are young men running ahead to beat wild pigs out of the bushes. Not enough places to hide here.

Sextus was talking.

She had tuned him out ten minutes ago. Maybe the one good thing about having a mask and dead eye was you could still face somebody like you were half-paying attention.

The kid was all right. Maybe. For one of them. Where Lucius glowered and grumped at her, or the others grimaced at the sight of her, Sextus bought into all that crap about the one who would bear the son of Caesar.

She had him mostly figured out. Young, naive, even if he had his moments of cleverness, like this afternoon. He was kind of a beefy young kid who tugged her heartstrings from time to time, just the way he moved, something about his big hands, and she thought of all those dumb young boys who had loved her. Their stupid love had been pure. The love of Jenny the fucking Mule and that stupid radio serial. Her big dumb stupid boy.

Sextus was born to a slave woman. There were rules for slaves. He didn't see anything wrong when Caesar had Lucius throw her in the pit, but he was the one who cleaned her up afterward, when the women could no longer be trusted.

This afternoon, when the hunting party gathered together and that prick Rutabega or whatever his name came strutting up, good ol Sextus nobly offered to stay behind. The kid said he was youngest of the Guard and would defer to the senior praetorians. Kid was going to get himself in trouble one of these days.

Sextus talks about how the original leader of the Cyclopes had been Broken Fang, a fearsome Kaibab warrior. Now THERE was a centurion-- or so he heard.

He can't wait to see the legendary Hell Hounds, in the flesh, as they return from their mission in the wilds of Utah. They are bringing home the bones of their mythic commander and Caesar himself will perform the rites so that the centurion's soul may cross the river.

The boy's voice is reverent as he speaks.

Meanwhile, Esperanza scans the scrubby hillside, the severe cut of the river, the sandy washes and gullies below. Low creosote and scratchy brush just aren't enough to make cover.

It is her first time outside the Fort. Her first time wearing shoes of any kind. Sandals.

She could run away.. but where would she go?

Back to Cottonwood Cove, with the centurion Aurelius and nearly a hundred of the Legion's most depraved?

Would superstitious terror save her life again? Or would he conquer his fear.

Better to wait. For the first time in a year she has time to think beyond the span of a day. She doesn't have to wonder if she'll live out the next hour. She's starting to think there may be a way through this.

The best she can hope for is some military defeat at the Dam. Caesar won't listen to any advisor that argues against a Mojave invasion, but then, few are brave enough to say so.

To calm her nerves, to keep herself together, Esperanza tells herself that when the NCR defeats the Legion, she'll get lost in the shuffle and slip away into the desert. She could manage that much. Get herself found by some ranger.

Then she could walk home. She could go home again. If there was anything left to go back to.

Her greatest fear was a Legion child taking root. That she would straggle away with a grim souvenir of what had happened to her here. That everyone would look and see.

But her bleeding came and went. She could deal with the fruitless ambitions of a cruel little man who made himself the son of a god. At least his narcisissm extended now to the vain hope of an heir, and he had provided her with cushions to recline on, water to drink, and a slave to wait on her.

If she could even be found. The little slave girl was clearly frightened of her and her terrible face.

It's only a matter of time before Caesar falls. To his illness or to the Legate, but those two outcomes end the same: Lanius the Butcher. Third in line, Lucius might contend for the throne, but he lacks the raw strength or charisma the next Caesar will need. If there will ever be another.

And no matter which of them won out, Esperanza would lose. At least Lucius would kill her outright and be done with the matter. It's not him she fears.

She must be strong. She'll find a way.

Caesar burns for Vegas, and Vegas will destroy him.

...

Caesar relishes a day of just wandering, walking where he wants to, his warriors gathered with him. Although he has brought a scoped rifle across his back, he intends to dispatch the animal with a weapon thrown by hand. In his prime, there were few who could stand against him.

The javelina hit a fearsome size out here.

The centurion Rutilius accompanies him, walking with him, telling him about his Cyclopes. News from Flagstaff. At every turn he can’t help but work in a word on how he helped squash the slave revolt, already old news from half a year back.

Rutilius tells him how the slaves used children to pass messages, how they thought they were clever, but how he he had all the treasonous little cretins rooted out. He tells how the Arizona Rangers were made to kneel on the steps of the Courthouse, stripped and shot. How Captain McKay himself was nailed to the highway crossroads where seventeen hits forty.

The story changes with every telling. More and more rangers. A fight on top of the courthouse. The treacherous Captain McKay, how huge he was, breathing hideously behind his gas mask.

Rutilius tells it like it was all the work of his own hands, done in an afternoon, smug and tight.

At least the centurion fights half as well as he talks. His Cyclopes will join the Minotaurs across the river. Though they lack a certain finesse, their vicious cohort will crash through enemy settlements and put all living bodies to the sword. They are the men for that job.

The men subside into silence now, picking carefully across the wash. A scout signals to them; prey is near. Caesar hands away his rifle to Lucius. He will not take a shot with that weapon.

When the sun is bright as now, it burns his eyes and sends a piercing agony through his skull. But now he feels no pain, not even an ache. He finds himself in rare form today, hunting with his men, their leader, king, and father.

Fresh air was all he needed. Fresh air away from the Hill. They will lounge by the river bank tonight, comfortable in their tents, and lit torches will dance on the water.

The javelina erupts from scratchy bushes with a squeal and Caesar takes it in one throw.

He turns away even before the wild pig has fallen, the spear clean through its side.

"There is our sacrifice," he says.

...

That evening they roast boar and brahmin and the hunting party eats well.

Caesar dedicates the javelina to Mars, whose signs they have lately seen across the sky. Flashes of light no man can explain otherwise.

Caesar holds level hands to the sky and asks the War God to accept the heady smoke of his offering. The murmuring voices of the Legion rumble behind him, the men bent in supplication.

It is a rare evening of cool breezes, good cooking smells, and music. Slaves pipe on bone flutes, and captured tribals strike drums.

Even the captured Mormon fiddle player plays the fiddle. He manages more songs than usual before collapsing into hopeless tears.

There are thick cuts of meat, dribbling juices, root vegetables seasoned with spice, jellied cactus pears and olives from jars of brine.

Caesar hasn’t felt better in longer than he remembers.

Somewhere in the companionable conversation, the woodsmoke smells, a shadow passes across the wall of his tent and a crested helm ducks under the flap. A helm of gold and one in a shape so well remembered.

The centurion pulls off his helmet and announces, gravely, "My lord, it is your humble servant, Marcus Decimus, commander of Hell Hound centuria, just in time for the orgy I hope."

"The ratio's skewed," Caesar replies, "at least for the rest of us." And both men look at each other and laugh.

Marcus laughs that huge crazy laugh of his, and he bounds up to jump on a long seat like a dog that's just been permitted on the couch.

Fucking hell, he's glad to see Decimus. "We all thought you were dead, you son of a bitch."

"Just a rumor I started just to see what other people would say about me." Marcus winks. "I just wanted some quiet time to work on my book. It shall be called the New Histories, a mostly factual account of the Second Reign of Mars. It will be read and studied through all the ages to come.. which is why I'm going to fuck with them a little and put in some wicked fight scenes with a hydra and a pegasus. I'll work that into the bit where I conquer the Strip for you."

Sensing Caesar's troubled anger, he pushes on with the charm offensive. He takes Caesar's hand in his big brown hands. "Because I've returned at just the right time, haven't I, domine? I shall duel the King of Vegas in single combat, man to man, sideburn to sideburn. I shall grow mine out especially."

He can't stay angry. There should be a furious rage at his insolence, in his audacity, but there is no room for anger, just a wash of relief.

“I’m glad you returned from your mission, Marcus. Lanius is the Legate now.. it’s more responsibility than I think he can handle.”

Without breaking his gaze, Decimus tells him exactly what he was thinking: “Let him lead the charge over the Dam. Let him die a hero. No one has to know what you really intended."

“Yes.”

Decimus gives his hand a squeeze, and then he lays back on his bench, making himself comfortable, beaming like a favorite dog given noticed by its master. "You'll see it's for the best, sire. Trust me."

Into the tent comes a shadow of a man, that young man of his, no longer so young. The Iron Line. The slave whose name Caesar no longer remembers. The slim warrior crouches in the back, dark eyes watchful.

“And this new woman of yours," Decimus continues, "I heard her swearing and I must say, she sounds exactly like what's-her-name, the radio singer."

“What a coincidence.”

Into the tent comes the wagging body of the beast he calls Cerberus. The one Decimus calls Hercules. The canine cyborg answers to neither of these names.

“Gods be good. I’ve always thought they didn’t deserve her.”

“What’s more, she’s to be the mother of my child.”

The light comes on in the centurion's eyes. “Ah, she is the Theodora to your Justinian." A puckish smile goes across his face. "I can’t wait to see what the NCR will do once they learn where she got off to. Maybe you will let her on the radio again.. a little Tokyo Rose of your own.”

Decimus always understood. He pats his cyborg dog with a slow loving pat, smiling gently.

“I’ll teach him the sword, domine. He will grow to be a fine warrior and a wise ruler worthy of his throne." The centurion winks. "And I will grow to be a happy old man, puttering around my villa, writing my book."

Caesar sighs with relief. Marcus back here, laughing and whole, with all his faithful Hounds. He always enjoyed his conversations with Decimus, a man of unexpected intelligence and wit, a true leader, with a deep faith in the gods and the mission of the Legion. It was true he was impulsive, that he could not master temperance, that he was a slave to strange desires, but even so-- even so

(there is a dull ache behind his eye; his vision blurs)

Even so, perhaps his indulges can be permitted, and if half of what Gnaius said was true

 _Send for Siri at once! He's having a seizure!_

then Decimus has suffered enough for his ways

 _POISON! They have poisoned my lord!_

and Caesar finds himself staring into the eyes of the Iron Line warrior, who smirks a cruel smirk above the red crescent cut across his throat. "He waits for you in Hell," the slave tells him in a language Bill Howard used to study

 _IDIOT! MOVE!_

and he can't break the grip of two hands on his hand, bleeding hands, nailed hands, and though he protests, Marcus doesn't listen, twisted and nude, flesh peeling, blood black and shiny down his back, down his legs, hair wild and matted, his face a rictus of agony, his skull without eyes

 _Don't let him swallow his tongue!_

the crows would have taken his eyes up there

“No, no!” Caesar screams, “Those weren’t my orders, I didn’t want it like that! I gave you a hero’s death! I punished them!”

The horrifying nailed hands grab him from across the spirit world.

A voice of agony and betrayal.

 _“I kept your secret, Bill.”_

...

Hands are shaking him, clean hands. Lucius.

He is being shaken to consciousness.

My lord. My lord.

Blood in his mouth.

Faces around him.

Polyhymnia holding his head steady.

Hey.

Rutilius in the corner of the tent, aghast.

Alerio shrieking about poison.

My lord.

Caesar has bitten his tongue.

Some kind of seizure. A dull ache pervading every thought.

Too much exertion for the day, Lucius says.

Caesar looks for the red glow of the dead dog's eyes, but Cerberus has vanished like smoke back into the underworld.

"Are you all right, domine?" someone is asking.

"Y--yes." He touches his bloody chin. Blinks. The world coming back into focus. "Everyone, out."

The music has stopped outside.

The fiddle player sobs.

And a singular beam of light flashes down from the sky, just once, with no earthly explanation.


	9. Chapter 9

Vulpes Inculta remembered Robinson saying once that it was better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.

He also remembered how Robinson spewed blood from every orifice for the hour it took him to die.

It does not put his soul at ease.

The young Fox finds his paw in a trap. He is Caesar's trusted agent in the matter with the Enclave, yet he has purchased Orion Moreno's vengeance with a hidden promise.

His lord Caesar does not know about the interrogation tapes. Not their existence, not their hiding place, not the extent of their vile influence.

And on behalf of his lord he has promised to find these tapes for Orion Moreno and to play them for all the world to hear.

He blames himself for the slip in control. The lights of the holograms inside the bunker. The sleek black armor. The flying machine with all the spotlights centered on it. It was as though the ground broke beneath his feet and sent him tumbling into a cavern of the underworld, where the great armies of the Americans were warehoused for eternity.

Yet he knows his plan will work. Orion Moreno is a fat old fool but none can deny his last moments will be in glory. His actions will open a great division in the ranks of the West, and they will see their enemies everywhere, in ordinary faces and family homes. Let them all tear each other apart. Let their leaders fear the Enclave lives again. Let their people hear how their civilization was lost to them.

But how to tell this to the Son of Mars?

Silva whispered once that the sacred duty of their order was to serve Lord Caesar in all ways, even if it angered him, even if he could not understand a necessity, even if he could not bare to look into truth. The gods demanded it. She had whispered this to him as she dragged her fingernails in slow strokes across his cheek, and then she had gripped his face and made him look her in the eye.

We serve him even if he commands our death, Vulpes Inculta. If he orders your head struck off, you kneel for the blade. If he orders you nailed to a cross, then you stretch out your hands. Remember that. True to Caesar. Always.

Vulpes Inculta remembered how Silva dissolved a powder in her father's drink. How she slipped it from a hollow in her ring without a second thought, and looked on as he died. He remembered how Silva shot Ludo and Gnaius of Scottsdale. Shot them dead so swiftly that their faces still grinned beneath the wolf's mantle. No matter Gnaius led their order. No matter Ludo fathered a child on her.

His lord Caesar was an intelligent man, a heart and hand guided by Mars and a mind blessed by Minerva. He would surely see the rare opportunity now afforded to them. It would still be there.. had to be there.. the box of old tapes hidden under the red tiles of the centurion's villa.

Even when Lanius sent his Centaurs smashing through, they would have never known what hidden blasphemies were kept safe in the space beneath their boots.

...

There was a time when Vulpes Inculta would die for Marcus Decimus, commander of Hell Hound centuria.

It is his hope that the time has now passed. Mighty gods, please let these records kill only those in the West, and not your servant!

Yet he obeys the will of Caesar, and if his lord turns down his thumb, Vulpes will follow all of the other leads of the order into the land of the dead. Silva Robinson. Gnaius of Scottsdale. Severus of Sedona. Iustinius and Numidius. Raven Feather.

If only the plan goes forth. If only it succeeds. If only Alerio will not lead them afterwards. Skilled as he is, he does not trust in his ability and creeps toward the armored boots of the Butcher. If Lanius becomes the Son of Mars, he will have no need for a wolf's mantle. He'll have them sent across the river. He could never understand their sacred mission.

More and more Vulpes dwells again on the events of the arena. That fateful day. He half-thinks, half-worries, half-dreams, rocked to sleep on uneven road. His fedora cupped over his face, he rests in the back of a caravan wagon, lumped in with sacks and supplies and the unsuspecting.

...

Before he took the wolf mantle, Fox loved Decimus even as he hated him.

The man commanded a hundred men whose sole mission was to hunt down the cannibals and monsters and raiders. How was it he could never understand that kindness and compassion were symptoms of weakness? That mercy was for fools.

Yet he had saved Fox from the horror of the Flesh People. He had fed and clothed him and loved him like his own. He had worshiped Caesar and for all his flaws, he was sincere in his faith and steadfast in his honor. Even when he confounded his lord with some rash decision, there was honor underneath it, as when he spared the life of an Arizona Ranger in a skirmish outside Yuma. With just a flick of his sword he cut the gas mask off the enemy's face, lifted his chin with the edge of the blade, and looked into the eyes of the man they came to know as Camurius.

Fox used to fear that Decimus would be killed on one of his far-off missions, and every time, rumors would flash like lightning that he had fallen. Lydia never believed when word came; she just laughed and went about her business tending birds with broken wings or a tortoise with a broken shell or catching crickets to feed her snake. "My lord Hades takes Marco from time to time, I've heard, but he always gives me back my husband. Too much laughing and drinking and knocking things over. You know how he is at dinner parties."

It was her who cheered him up every time he brought grave news; she took his helmet out of his hands, laughed happily, and put it on her own head as she led him inside. "Don't look so sad, our Marcus will be fine, he's got Hercules and Scintillus and Charlie and even grouchy old Lepus."

Only once he wondered if Lydia wanted Marcus dead, but he knew differently. He sensed it. Though women were uniquely talented in treachery and cunning, Lydia was never false. Tricky, yes. Strange, yes. But she loved Marcus and the two of them were always hugging and touching, laughing at some joke only they knew about.

Which was why Fox lived in torment when she stroked his arm or touched his hair, when she asked forlornly when he would visit next. He tried to think of the house as his childhood home. He tried not to feel like a usurper, a predator. He tried to stay away.

But he had loved her since he was a boy, first in the innocent way a boy loves, and then in the awkward way of a boy struggling to be a man. For some reason, perhaps some tribal holdover, something, to this day he didn't know what had possessed him, Fox had brought a gift into the stucco home at the edge of Wheeler Park, a gift that-- when unlidded-- turned out to be a spectacular example of an Arizona tarantula.

In the dead silence that followed, Fox realized that perhaps a giant spider was not an appropriate offering to a female object of devotion.

...

But Lydia had looked up and gasped: "Oh, he's wonderful! Look at the size of his pedipalps! I've always wanted a live one." She gripped Fox's sweaty hand, looked him in the eye, and said in a voice that went straight to his groin: "Let's see if he'll eat a mouse!"

And she had rushed off gleefully with the box that contained the _Aphonopelma chalcodes_.

A time came when Fox thought dark thoughts and wished dark wishes. If anything happened to Marcus, someone would have to take care of Lydia. That is what he would want. He actually cared for her as though she were a full person.

Then he would think: Lydia deserves children to care for, not birds and little lizards and cactus cuttings and tomato plants.

Then he would wonder, why have the gods withheld children from their home? He would wonder: is it that Decimus dwells too much on the dead world of the past that the gods have denied him a future?

Then he would reason that the Hell Hounds struck out too far and too long, that Marcus could hardly get children on her if he were not there.

And then Vulpes Inculta would sweat hard, thinking how he had been made the ninth decanus in Titan centuria, recently garrisoned in the capital. There was talk of expedition later this year, or the next, or the next after that, no one really knew when, or if, or why-- Vulpes was first horrified to find himself emplaced in such a sedentary position, then angered that Decimus (why!) denied him a place in his own Dogs, and then.. and then..

And then he knew with sly and shameful certainty that life in Flagstaff could hardly be more perfect.

He hated himself for it. He hated that he wanted her. To do that to a woman, to Lydia, was unthinkable to him. You needed to mate a woman to get children. Of course. How else. But watching helpless how his mother died, the months of struggle in the Flesh People camp-- he couldn't bear to see or hear the act for the longest time. Sights and sounds he connected with pain and horror and humiliation. He never wanted to harm Lydia… but damn her for all the little looks and touches. The beaded slipper toeing at his sandal. I know you are a great and mighty decanus now, Two Fox Kits, but the house is so empty now and there are noises, and I'm afraid.. (what lies, from a weird little minx that could see in the dark, hear a spider thinking, and pick up serpents with her bare hands!)

Months of suffering. Of torture. Of terrible thoughts.

He'd been slicing a lemon on a board when it happened. Standing in the painted kitchen with the hanging herbs and the bird cages.

His expert handling of the knife had failed him. He had been watching her talk and gesture about something, only the gods remembered what. Then red went across the cutting board and he drew back in mild surprise. When he looked for something to blot the cut, Lydia took him slowly but purposefully by the wrist. They stared eye to eye when she brought his two bleeding fingers to her mouth and sucked them in.

He felt as though his life bled out through those two fingers. Like she pulled all his spirit out of his body. His heart beat so wildly in his throat that he thought he might actually be the first man in the entire Legion to die of a cut finger. His face had to be paper white.

Then Lydia released him with a pop, stroked his captured hand, and said softly, "Tell me no, Fox."

...

Fox always thought Marcus would die on a mission, that he would die like a hero, stumbling his last, surrounded by the bodies of his enemies.

Strange to think that he might die in the arena. It was only meant for entertainment.

It was back when most of the old circle was still alive. Graham was not yet coated in pitch. Robinson went unpoisoned. And the Mojave was still a distant dream. Vegas an unrealized obsession.

The sybil shrieked again through the streets of Santa Fe Avenue, howling that Mars demanded blood, and so Caesar lifted his hand and called for games.

Fox was seated with the other officers of Titan centuria. A more unimaginitive lot could not be found in all Arizona. He never liked the Titans, never fit with them. They always seemed a bunch of mouth-breathing dullards, plodding from place to place to rape and plunder on the road, or stand still scratching ass in garrison. Fox had longed to be one of the Dogs, who had such spirit, such camaraderie, such strange stories and traditions, but damn Marcus-- did he not think he was ready? Not suited? You always felt left out when one man would say something weird and a hundred others fell over laughing. _"May the gods bless Lieutenant Stones, the son of a bitch! We'll get you next time!" "Hear, hear!" "Hey Scintillus, how's the cactus-in-law?" "ARF ARF!" "AWOO!_

Decimus had not only passed him over, but forbidden him! Why?

He should know Fox better than anyone!

Fox would have given anything to strike out and hunt down the monsters and raiders like the Flesh People. To hunt down and punish those abominations. To go forth with honor, to bring peace, to build a new world of law and morality. He would do whatever had to be done.

The first few matches went by in a blur. The ritual killing of a prisoner. Two of the Lions against a giant scorpion-- that one had been close, with the stinger pounding into the sand right by Sabinus' sandal. The crowd had gasped then. The match was followed by an uneventful, dragged-out affair between the champion of the Wolves and a brahmin steer, who did not do much of anything but snuffle around for something to eat.

Fox avoided looking for Lydia as much as he could. He permitted only a few glances across the way. She was seated with one of the household servants in the section with Caesar's women. Hercules lay down like a sphinx against her knees, panting slowly. She petted him, played with his ears, smiling constantly.

Fox wished he could lay across her lap, black-tipped ears back, little paws in the air, white belly up.

Oh gods, he wanted that woman, even after he had her. Or she him.

After the cutting of the lemon, she kept telling him it would be all right, murmuring and kissing him to the floor-- he had never kissed another's lips before-- and then, oh gods, for some reason he had looked away in modesty, in shame. Sightlessly he watched the bird cages, senselessly he smelled warm feathers, heard soft cooing. Ring-necked doves bobbing their heads. He didn't force her, didn't hurt her. Hardly touched her, just enough to hold her steady, that first time. It amazed Fox how much she wanted him. She braced herself with hands on the chest of his leather armor, and then she touched his face, and he looked at her face in time to see her almond eyes slip shut, her mouth open with a soundless cry.

He kept thinking of the cool tiles of the kitchen floor. The cooing of the ring-necked doves. The beautiful Chinese girl in the blue and white dress, the beaded slippers.. neither of them had unclothed.

It was a pleasant distraction from the blaring heat of the day, the sea of bodies in the stadium, the ripped-up scrubby sands of the arena. The sluggard give-and-take of a too-long match.

Then it picked up when Decimus strode out of the gate, golden and resplendent in his armor, the champion of the Legion, flanked by Lepus the Iron Line warrior, the warrior prince, neither knowing what the Fates had in store for them.

...

Marcus always began with an invocation to the gods. The words of the sacred language fell from his lips in tones of gold. Then the salute to Caesar, then to the Legate, then some private remark to his slave, who even at the outset had little heart for the game.

Vulpes never understood Lepus. A proud grim shadow. A terrible slave for the home. Fox could never remember seeing him perform any kind of a household chore or duty, just lounging around, looking at the wall, or slowly petting Lydia's doves. She would always grab or tickle his long feet when she went by.

Lepus had been given to Marcus when they were both young men, and for fifteen years they had trained, traveled, and fought together. That much was evident when you saw them on the move.

Their first few matches went by like dry leaves blown by the wind. It seemed that all the hard work went in the releasing of the creatures, the beastmaster and his attendants dragging away heavy chain and clearing the gates. The smattering of wasteland monsters were dead the moment they came blinking out into the light.

Someone yelled to give them a real challenge.

Hercules barked from the stands, and Fox could see Lydia hugging him round the neck, laughing. The metal dog wanted to be down there.

Until that afternoon, Vulpes Inculta had never seen a true deathclaw. It seemed they lived only in legend, that they grew larger in every telling of a story, that they sprouted more horns and sharpened more claws every time the rumors went around. Decimus said he and Lepus had once battled one, but then, this was also the man that winked and told him there was a flag on the moon.

Then Caesar commanded the beastmaster to give up his prize.

All you heard at first was the whining of the gates. The slithering of heavy chains. Then the crowd whispering and gasping as soon as they saw it, which depended on where you were seated in the stands.

Fox craned his head to look, eyebrows up, watching as an array of horn passed beneath him on the sands. A ridged skull and great leathery body. A lashing tail. Arms that looked too long for it.

Lepus spat in the sand and readied his spear.

Decimus raised the edge of his sword to the beast and called out, "Here we are then, old brother."

The battle with the deathclaw had been a wonder to behold, the beast itself, and the men. A battle more than just weapons, but also of wit. There was an uncanny intelligence in the creature that sent little hairs prickling up and down Fox's arms. Some dim tribal superstition.

The sword and armor of the centurion flashed in the sun. The spear of the tribal slave aimed true. Every lethal sweep of the monster's talons seemed to fall a whisper short, just a whisper. If the games had ended when the leathery hulk hit the sand a final time, then the duel with the deathclaw would have lived in infamy.. and not what came after.

Lepus limped away to fetch water for himself. Decimus lingered over the body of the deathclaw, tracing its muzzle and eye ridges with the edge of his sword. He was bleeding by now, weary, pouring sweat, but otherwise in good spirits.

When he looked up into the stands, you could see his smile. He was shouting something back and forth with the Dogs, his breathing hard, his voice cracked. He could use a drink. Lepus hadn't brought him any.

Then the gates creaked and even Caesar leaned and looked forward. How to match a fight with a deathclaw? Was there really more? But they were finished.

The centurion of the Minotaurs thudded out onto the sands, fresh and fully armored-- but for his helmet. His bearded face had that weird little half-smile on it, back when he still had a face.

He had brought a decanus with him, a vicious man whose name had been Spurius.

Decimus smeared sweat from his brow, swallowed to wet his throat, and then called out, "Ay, Lanius, did you come down to see my dragon?" He wiped bloody fingers off on his thigh and stood straighter.

Spurius handed the man his horned helmet. The centurion pulled it on and slowly drew out his monstrous sword.

From behind the cruel mask, the deep voice said _No_.

...

Decimus told Fox once that he hated the Hidebark monster whose name was Fleshcutter. Wash him off, kit him in armor, plonk a helmet on his head, he would always be Fleshcutter. Even his Roman name meant butcher.

They had fought before. First when the Legion brought justice to the Hidebark raiders. Countless times since. It seemed to amuse Caesar to pit them against one another, Decimus with his skill and sense of showmanship, and tireless Lanius, who fought like a block of stone, who wielded a sword as tall as a man.

It was an arresting sight. Never ended one way or another. Caesar would never let it carry too far. But even Caesar did not arrange for what happened that day.

Fox remembers seeing the Son of Mars astonished in his viewing box, by turns outraged, confused, and then tolerant. A drink in his hand as he motions for them to continue, as though any of the four below were even looking.

Decimus held his own for longer than anyone suspected. Two against one. The Minotaur decanus was younger, faster, leaner, and he lashed quick as a whip in the wake of the Butcher's blows. Lanius never seemed to tire, plodding inexorably on. The Blade of the East swung scant inches from contact.

Lanius was playing with him.

Decimus did what Fox hoped he would. He dragged the edge of the fight back to the body of the deathclaw, putting the enormous leathern hulk between him and his enemies. He couldn't afford to let Spurius slip behind him.

At the edges of the arena, Marco's slave still held a skin bowl of water. Lepus looked on. After fifteen years he had made his decision.

Decimus fought like a hero, drew first blood from Spurius, but Fox knew he was doomed the moment Lanius stepped onto the stands.

Fox missed the initial blow from the Blade of the East. He was threading through the stands, slipping past knees and elbows and angry cries of hey-watch-it, before they ripped their eyes from the arena and saw that Fox was an officer.

"Domine," Fox beseeched his centurion, "this is hardly an honorable match. Is there nothing you can do? No one you can speak to?"

Lanius had struck Marcus with the flat of his sword, spinning him off-kilter on his heel. Spurius took a great slice across his back and showed the bloody blade to a screaming crowd.

"Bah, Decimus needs a fucking come-uppance," replied the Titan centurion.

"Only our lord decides that," Fox shouted. You had to shout now, something was happening. Decimus dropped his sword, staggering. "Think of how the Minotaurs will gloat when Lanius kills him! Do you want that?"

The Titan centurion waved him away like a bad smell. "I'm trying to watch," he yelled. "Get in my way again and I'll have you whipped!"

Fox looked down onto the sands. There was a ringing metal sound. Lanius brought his sword pommel down again and again on the other centurion's helmet. Marcus wavered on his knees. Then the Butcher reached out with a gauntlet hand and hooked big thick fingers under the chin straps.

The crowd laughed and roared and shouted when Lanius hauled Decimus up by the straps on his helmet, choking him as he tottered him round, trying to thump him back up on his feet. Decimus managed to grab a dagger out of the Butcher's belt loop and stab him with it, but the blade just sank in and stuck, the huge Hidebark unaffected.

The straps broke and Decimus fell face first to the ground, coughing, sand grains sticking to the sweat on his skin and the blood from his wounds, new and old, from this match and from the duel with the deathclaw.

...

Fox was overwhelmed with disgust. Not ten minutes ago they had cheered him like a hero. Even the sybil shrieked and yipped, though Decimus spoke the sacred language and loved the gods.

Up until this match, Fox thought the gods adored him. There was that inkling of tribal superstition again. Perhaps it was meant to happen. Lydia's face flashed in his mind but no, damn him, what of his honor.

A praetorian grabbed him by the collar half-in Caesar's viewing box. He'd gotten close enough to see the gloating look on the face of Gnaius of Scottsdale, close enough to see the hesitation on his lord's face.

"Domine, please," Fox was shouting, "this man serves you and the gods, it is within your power to save him."

Voices yelling, "Get him out of here!" "Who is this!"

Down on the sands, Decimus struggled to stand. Lanius had pulled out the bloody dagger and cast it away. His armored boots beat out a slow rhythm as he circled the doomed centurion.

Spurius danced about the edges, yelling to the crowd.

The Minotaurs roared.

Lepus watched. He hated Decimus, Fox realized later. Hated him for fifteen years.

Then Lanius raised a huge hand and pulled the straps of his helm free. He handed the horned helm to Spurius, and his flushed face shone with sweat. His big square teeth showed in that weird little smile through his beard.

He was speaking to Marcus, looking down on him, a heavy boot crunching on his outstretched hand. Even then, Decimus was still reaching weakly for a weapon.

It was this time that something unexpected came to happen, and it happened so quickly that there was only time enough to look and wonder what it meant.

A dark shape leaping down from the stands.

Spurius dropped his centurion's helmet in his haste.

A metal hound flashing like a knife across the sands.

Lanius looked up. There was a knot of confusion on his face.

There was no time, only one heartstopping moment where the beast launched for his face and throat.

Camurius of Prescott was the first to jump down thereafter, the first of nearly a hundred. It was later believed that Camurius only wanted to help Decimus, as the centurion had once spared his own life on the sands, back when he was Charley Fitzsimmon of the Arizona Rangers. But once the Hell Hounds saw Hercules take down the giant, there was no holding back. Damned if they were going to let the dog lead the charge!

And into the arena poured the Minotaurs, not for love of Spurius nor for Lanius, whose huge hands were growing weaker and weaker on the bloody ruff of the cyborg that savaged him. They hated the Dogs and lived for chaos.

Fox never saw the pandemonium, grabbed and hauled by the Guard, but the voice of the crowd went so loud that even dragged a few body-lengths from the viewing box, Fox could barely hear Caesar screaming _Enough, damn it_.

A sea of bodies pushing, shoving, crowding. The stands emptying out. The praetorians trying to shoulder through. The crack of gunshots rang in the arena acoustics. Hard to tell where it came from. Then more. Caesar red-faced and indignant. The sybil shrieking.

Then armed veterans from Scorpion centuria came to intervene, their clear-headed commander directing them to separate the swarm on the sands.

The Dogs centered around Decimus, his optio wedged under his shoulder. Lepus off on the side, his throat cut. Spurius laying unrecognizable by the body of the deathclaw. The Minotaurs spitting and jeering from their side. Some of them hauling the dead dog's body off of Lanius, who lay unmoving, his face a bloody cavern opened to the sky.

...

The men burned the slave's body at the edge of Wheeler Park. Scintillus said the bastard Lepus deserved no better than a ditch, but Camurius argued the Boss wouldn't want it that way.

Lydia wept uncontrollably and begged him not to burn the dog too; she seemed to believe that it was only a computer issue, that the cyborg dog would 'boot back up' and be back wagging in the kitchen in no time. She even had Camurius (Oh Charley, please) try to press some buttons on the hidden panel.

"Sorry, ma'am, he's gone back to dog heaven," Camurius told her, "He was a good boy" and Lydia sobbed and asked Fox to plant him in the garden-- so he might dig back out again when he was better.

Fox had never seen so many people crammed in that little home on the edge of the park. It seemed half the centuria was there, and their wives, the weird half-wild tribal women that were rumored to follow their Dogs into battle.

The wife of Flavius was a half-Kaibab woman called Melanippa who smeared some vile concoction on Marco's wounded back. They had him flat on the kitchen table, bleeding profusely-- Fox thought suddenly of slicing his hand on the cutting board, how the blood had gone everywhere. Lydia's little dress looked like a butcher's apron, the way she crowded in, stroking his face, trying to get him to look at her, kissing his hair, 'Marco, please, you can't go to sleep'.

"Looks worse than it is, folks," Camurius declared cheerfully, and because he had come from the Profligates, his opinion on the matter held some sway. It was a prognosis with which Melanippa also agreed; she was a hard woman who expected much out of her men, didn't raise any complainers.

They had to stay up the whole night with him. Couldn't let him nod off with the concussion. After a while he seemed to focus a little and could half talk to you, though he hardly made any sense ("Good gods.. I feel like the man from La Mancha after too many windmills"). He couldn't seem to figure out what had happened and how he came to be laying half naked on his kitchen table surrounded by half a hundred of his closest friends and their Amazon wives.

But he took it in stride, and didn't seem to realize that grouchy Lepus wouldn't be found skulking in a corner, or that Hercules would never again race through the kitchen with metal legs clacking on the tiles.

Scintillus was the right man for the job and they talked for hours, telling stories, Marco slurring and chuckling, trying to hold his head up, the men laughing and joking, as though the match in the arena had not been the prelude to civil war.

Good gods.. if only Lanius stayed dead.

That was the one bright mark of what had happened that day. The glorious relief where you all thought the Butcher was dead.

The next morning the praetorians came. Marcus went with them, and the Hell Hounds followed.

Lydia flew around the house in a panic, setting the birds to flapping and jumping in their cages, accidentally overturning the little nest box with the spider, tearing through drawers and overturning tiles and pushing paintings aside to pull out hidden caches. He caught her shoulder and she wheeled on him, sobbed, and flung into his arms. They fucked on a bed piled with blue jeans and western clothes, a curly blond wig, a rucksack, wrapped rations, and the thing that was digging into his side was a little German pistol.

Afterwards, Lydia framed his face with her hands and kissed him slowly. "They're going to kill him," she said. "We can leave tonight, but I won't go without Marco. He's my greatest friend, Fox." Her smile was so sad. "He _knows_. He wanted it this way."


	10. Chapter 10

You could smell Cottonwood Cove for miles, the smell of fire and human feces. The intensifying stink recalled to Vulpes Inculta the filthy encampment where he had no choice to cross the river. He had argued against Cottonwood as a crossing site, pointing out that the camp was poorly protected, but the Dominus let the Legate have his way and that was that.

Of course Lanius would not care whether or not the camp was protected. If the men were strong, then they would protect it. The speed of crossing was more important. He would flood the Mojave with sheer numbers.

This had irritated Vulpes. Only a fool would permit the enemy to take higher ground. Vulpes was not surprised when the NCR attacked the camp back in autumn. A wide-eyed patrol had returned to report that the hills were swarming with First Recon snipers. An exaggeration of frightened minds, to be sure. More likely there had only been a team or two at most. Vulpes had personally undertaken a sweep of the hills and discovered a weathered sniper nest. Nevertheless, if he had been anything other than supremely dedicated to the mission of Mars’ children, he would have experienced a twinge of satisfaction to see his prediction had come true.

Perhaps Lanius would only take it into serious consideration if Aurelius of Phoenix himself should drop dead from distant crosshairs.

Vulpes Inculta looked out across the camp from high above. He could see the moving bodies of many soldiers down in the cove, and in the early gloom of a cloud-covered day, he could see the standards of two centuries-- the Minotaurs, of course, and one other he could not determine. He knew it must be that of the Cyclopes. Vulpes had stood around their lord's map as he pushed tokens across Arizona and into Nevada. The Cyclopes, the Satyrs, the Lions, the Scorpions, his old centuria the Titans. The Hell Hounds. That one dog-shaped token sitting far off on the board. What to do with it. What to do.

The scent of human misery filled his nostrils.

Sheltered by a rocky overhang, Vulpes nosed out one of his old caches. He kept several drop sites carefully hidden throughout the Mojave: changes of clothing, weaponry, basic tools, and dried rations tightly sealed as not to attract scavengers. He stripped out of his profligate clothing and folded them neatly, preserving for another time the traveling costume of his Mormon persona. In heeling off his shoes, he discovered a slight scuff that a moment's rubbing made disappear. Much better.

Then he took the boiled red leather into his hands, turning the cuirass slowly one way and then the other, examining it for tampering or insects who may have settled into it. The metal fittings gleamed. The wolf's fur waited.

Vulpes became himself again. He went below.

The smell of Cottonwood Cove became more than a smell, it became a stink, it became a taste, it became every grimaced breath.

Two young sentries jogged up to challenge his approach.

When asked for the password, he purred, “You must be new." 

...

Vulpes Inculta found himself indeed in the presence of the Cyclopes out of Flagstaff, freshly returned from a crushing victory over the latest incarnation of the Arizona Rangers. Despite his misgivings over the personality of its commander, Vulpes had seen their lord's wisdom in marching them here. They had great experience in countering a profligate enemy with military ranks and gunpowder weaponry. Their veterans had also seen combat here in Nevada four years ago.

Their original centurion Broken Fang had perished in Boulder City, courtesy of First Recon. The strength and might and valor of the former Kaibab warrior had vanished in an instant-- and his head as well, in a sudden pink mist. It seemed the survivors had been promoted as decani, the optio, and their centurion. Ah, Rutilius-- battle-hardened, to be sure, but his estimation of the man ran more toward cowardly than prudent. A vicious bully. At least the optio was decent, exceedingly decent. Perhaps if the snipers came by again, the optio Appius might come away with a crested helmet.

Vulpes had to wonder what the Cyclopes thought of Cottonwood Cove. Neck and neck with the Minotaurs, the camp already too small for their bursting numbers. Breathing the same shit air. Standing in the same muddy filth. The whimpering captives penned in like cattle, the strange meat dripping fat over cookfires. A better centurion would have challenged Aurelius, would have kept him in line, especially the decorated commander of an honored unit out of capital territory. But Rutilius would say nothing, Fox was sure. He had come to the Legion hiding behind the skirts of a profligate mother. He was of a town-living people. Aurelius came to the Legion through fire and blood, from the name of Golden Talon. He would look Rutilius unwavering in the eye and the Cyclops would think better of it all.

Time and again, Vulpes mused unhappily on how some of his brothers could wander astray. Great Caesar had taught the savages that their Father Wolf was known by Mars in his other name, and that Hawk and Dragon and Owl Woman had a place in their pantheon. Great Caesar was wise. He brought all people beneath his banner, rescued them from ignorance, brought them out of the darkness of the Old World and into the light of the new. But some of them crawled back to that ignorance, craved it.

He was not surprised to find the mob stripping a wounded captive on the commons. Aurelius himself presided in his impressive armor. Fox froze, watching the nudity and bleeding cuts revealed once they divested the young male of his garments. There was a moment where Fox breathed in the horrid stink of the camp all new again.

It looked like the Minotaurs had some sport in mind. On his way to the knot of activity, Vulpes Inculta recognized the articles of clothing now being trampled underfoot by some of the more boisterous legionaries. Sequins, a fringed vest, beaded armbands, purple sunglasses-- now where had he seen this tacky person before. A thorough beating distorted the facial features, but the impressive bird-wing hair style was now placing the identity. Vulpes had last seen this person in negotiations before the Caesar himself. The Great Khan envoy was in a state of shock and pain, or drugged, and was responding slowly and ineffectively to the events unfolding around him.

Vulpes came up alongside Aurelius of Phoenix, who appeared to consider allowing himself a respite from boredom.

“Piss off, Vulpes," the centurion grunted. “I know what you're going to say and this doesn't concern you.”

“I’m sure you are about to tell me that this isn't what it looks like.”

“And what does it look like?”

“It looks to me as though you have decided to take negotiations with the Khans into your own hands.”

Aurelius snorted. "The bird man tried to feed us some line of shit.”

“Which was?”

“He said there can be no decision until their wise woman goes to the mountain of sorrows. They say the lights in the sky have been a sign from their spirits." Aurelius snorted. "They dance around their words-- they would never have allied with us against the Bear.”

“Certainly not now, in any case," Vulpes replied. “Release him. I will take him across the river and personally deliver him to our lord. You have made your point.”

“I can do what I want.”

“Then so can I, if that is the game you wish to play. I remind you that my imagination is far greater than yours."

Vulpes wondered if this may be the trigger at last, if this was the moment long in coming when some minion of Lanius finally lashed out at him. He almost welcomed it. Almost. Though he wagered he might bury his dagger into the centurion's eye before the centurion's hand could reach his weapon, the victory would be Pyrrhic at best. One centurion down, perhaps, but a centuria remained. Two centuries.

Then Aurelius called out and begrudgingly the festivity came to a halt. The Khan envoy was down to one wing of crazy hair, the other side of his head scraped away by a scalping knife. Ah-- Vulpes thought he had seen a legionary with the old White Leg scar tattoos. How quaint.

“You can take him, for what good that will do," Aurelius of Phoenix told him. “Get out of my camp.”

...

The ferryman rowed, and Vulpes Inculta leaned back on his arms, looking out across the river. Breathing rive air. The stink remained, though, on the body of the Khan envoy and in his mind. He glanced at the sullen captive, bloody-nosed, who breathed shallowly through an open mouth. Red ran down the side of his head and pooled in the hollow of his collar bone.

“You were mistaken to come to Cottonwood Cove. You should have come to me.”

The Khan said nothing.

“No matter," Vulpes murmured. “We will bring your message to Lord Caesar. Tell me more about the mountain of sorrows. Tell me about the lights. I have seen them too."

No response.

"We have a four hour journey. You have my undivided attention.”

The Khan looked away.

Vulpes let his head fall back on his shoulders. Then he glanced over, crooked his sunglasses, and said, “You needed a haircut anyway. Be honest.”

...

It was a rare day of cloud cover, and through the gray shadow of the Fort you could see the sibyl and her priestesses in writhing histrionics. You could hear their cries and shrieks fall ghostlike through the valley. Lucius considered himself a pious man but rational also. He had emerged from the darkness of a vault to stand in the light of the Olympian gods. When the sibyl raved and ripped her clothing, howling and moaning, he did not think the gods hid the sun nor the sign of Mars would appear in the sky; rather, Lucius was of the mind that what was needed now was a sharp word and a swift slap to the face.

If only it had been delivered sooner.

The sibyl was a person of rare importance to the dominus, and he had permitted her the peculiar position that she enjoyed. Lucius had only been a boy, but the former head of the praetorians, Lysander, had told him that she had been a great princess of her people and favored by the gods. These days, he wondered what gods-- across the thirteen years of his tenure standing before Caesar’s throne, pouring his wine, defending his household, Lucius had watched the sibyl devolve from the speaker of the soul of their people to a scampering witch doctor. Perhaps it had always been so, but he felt the thin veneer of civilization had been chipped from this woman and now the ugly tribal superstition showed through.

It spoke to them. Not Lucius, who dimly remembered a time of jumpsuits and computer screens, but there were those among his brothers that still believed in ghosts and demons and gods with the bodies of animals. The sibyl once wore fine gowns and hammered armbands, a great Roman lady, but now she ran to fat with scraggled gray hair and the bits and bones of birds and rodents strung about her neck. Once she had been the great lord’s lover. Once.

The slaves whispered that she mated now with Lanius the Butcher, once called Fleshcutter of the Hidebarks. Slaves whispered many things. Lucius knew that her time would come soon, as it had come to Calhoun, Graham, Robinson, and others. Decimus.

As Lucius worked his way up the hill, he found himself half-wishing that Silva still lived. She would have a good idea of what to do. She always did. Intelligent for a woman, mostly reasonable. A shame Vulpes had cut her throat, but he had learned from her well.

Drawing to the tent he heard the husky strains of a woman's voice in song. Polyhymnia, that vile whore. Before the guards could finish their smart salute, chest-high, he snapped, “Who brought her here? Did he request her?"

They looked at one another and Tiberius replied, somewhat nervously, “No Lucius, he has been feeling poorly.. Sextus brought her for him.”

That fool of a boy.

Lucius looked them in the eye, one and then the other, and told them before he went in: “If you or any of you disturb his rest, I will have you whipped.” 

And there she was, reclining in the bed beside Great Caesar, her gown fallen away to expose a shapely leg. The woman was gigantic, among the tallest he had seen outside the amazon tribes in Coconino. She looked dark and supple, voluptuous, curved in the sheets like the whore that she was. Lucius had begged their lord to give the woman to the sibyl, to let her be taken in the flames, more of practicality than the religious fervor at the time. He did not believe she was chosen by Mars as some of the others did-- but rather, chosen by the Bear, and it was said she sang for the NCR after the first battle of the dam four years ago.

And now she is mine, Lord Caesar had smirked. Now she is mine. Where are they, that they have come for her? They do not want her. They have enjoyed her body, they have enjoyed her voice, and now she is nothing to them, already forgotten. But she is a symbol. She is mine.

He did not know that anyone could enjoy her voice. Something unsettling. Deep as the growl of a jaguar, or as sharp as an icicle.

Now she was arrayed in a mood both playful and cruel, as woman are if allowed the chance, and she was stroking their lord and singing softly to him.

Sextus watched all the while, that mooning, idiot boy.

“Sextus! You are not to bring that wench in here," Lucius grunted. “You, remove your mannish hand from our lord's face.”

She did so, that washed-up profligate who was thirty-five if she was a day. Then as if in a challenge she dropped her hand upon his chest and moved it through the hair. “Don't get your skirt in a twist, Lucius.”

Their lord issued forth a groggy sound. “It’s all right, Lucius." He slowly opened his eyes in a pained squint. “Tell me what all the commotion is about outside.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes, staring into the remaining eye of that horrible female person. She had lost an eye down in Cottonwood and that dead orb took on a revolting milk color that inspired in others a fear of the supernatural. He said, “The sibyl is carrying on, my lord, something about the gods having hidden the sun.”

“Because the seasons have never changed before," their wise lord muttered. “Where is Vulpes Inculta?”

“Not yet returned, my lord, but he has radioed from Cottonwood Cove this morning." Vulpes was always loathe to advertise, but Lucius knew it was wise for him to do so in this instance. Prove he was at Cottonwood Cove in case he went missing. No love lost between him and Aurelius. “He should be returning shortly.”

“Has the Khan ambassador returned?"

Lucius hesitated. Their lord appeared in pain. Best not to trouble him further, yet.. “No, my lord," he replied. “Not at this time."

Caesar slurred, "That will be all."

Polyhymnia raised a dark eyebrow at him, and he glowered in response. When he looked at Sextus, the boy had a flushed cheek beneath the distinctive scar. The youngest praetorian was in need of some schooling. Old Lysander would never have stood for this, and neither should he.

Thumping a smart salute in their Roman style, Lucius said, “As you wish, sire," and then, "Sextus-- outside.”

“Grumpy old Lucius," Esperanza said once he was gone. “I get this feeling he's very repressed. Skirt just isn't helping it."

“He is very loyal to me.”

“So get him to strangle the witch." Ah, so there it was. “You know she's out there doing her whole song and dance.”

Caesar hissed softly. “It’s more complicated than that.”

She carded her hand slowly through the hair on his chest, and then she squeezed her toes against his ankle. “She's going to get you killed.”

He opened his eyes and stared at her, very clearly, for once. There was a pressure behind his eye. “Like you, if you had the chance." He smiled sharply at her. “Look at you, singing to me, smiling, oh my, you must be beside yourself thinking I'll just up and die. Don't deny it.”

“You think I want you dead, kid? What's going to happen to me, or any of us.” The idea of Lanius haunted the room these days, breathing heavily-- he almost thought he could hear the giant breathing behind that mask. “I’m hoping I can outrun Lucius. He’s got that stick up his ass to slow him down.”

Despite himself, he snorted a sound, and she took it as encouragement. He felt her slide slowly down upon the bed, until his head sat wonderfully against her bosom. He felt her wonderfully heavy breasts through the thin gauze of her gown. “You always survive," he said. “I’m hoping that you will finally come around. I can see-- from a certain point of view-- that you might have been angry with me. I will allow that.”

Esperanza stiffened, and then the tension went out of her as she slithered down the bed. “You must be feeling better," she said. Her thigh rubbed against the beginnings of his erection. “I don't know if I buy your excuse to lay in bed all day like a girl on her period.”

He had saved her, of course. Aurelius had brought her to the sibyl as a sacrifice. The sibyl had wished to give her through flame to Mars. No less than the word of Caesar could have spared her life. No less than that. He had other women, so many other women, beauties and wonders from the highlands of Colorado to the reaches of the Sonora, tribal women proud in their headdresses and baubles, vault women stripped from their jumpsuits, but few of them had such a unique status or history as the old radio singer of the stage name Esperanza.

“You have to get out there, see and be seen," she said. "You have to make sure they see you out and about. You don't want them to think something's wrong. Once your boy Wooolpez gets back.. you go have him take care of her. You know he'd love to. Junior gets bored sitting around picking the wings off flies.”

Her thick dark hair tickled his hip now. Their son will have hair like that, her thick dark hair, her dark skin. His intellect, his mission, and her voice ringing out when he speaks before his armies.

Esperanza gave him a slow stroke, purposeful, her dark eye watching his face. “Back in Freeside I lived with a drag queen called Miss Glitter Doll and she told me something I’m gonna tell you now.” She ran her thumb over him, and then she leaned back, gathering up to straddle him. His hands came up to the bunched gown about her hips. She sank on him and he felt his eyes roll. “Sometimes in life you're going to break a heel.. but you can't stop, you got to keep on walkin.”

She gave a saucy smirk, still effective, despite the dead eye and the gunshot wound to the head.

He just groaned, and she said, "You got to keep on walkin’, kid.”

“Such wisdom," he muttered, letting his head fall back. “I shall have it engraved in marble.” He might be feeling better already.

They moved together, and there was sound outside, the deep unhappy rumble of Lucius' voice, the far-off shriek from the sibyl, but then there was the heat and warmth of the muse Polyhymnia, and her husky voice-- do your spurs... Jingle jangle jingle?


	11. Chapter 11

A young praetorian met them at the gates. The youngest one with the blond hair and purple facial scar. He presented an image of youth and strength, physical perfection. It would be, Vulpes thought, his downfall.

“I am to bring you to the dominus,” he announced with a sense of pride. “Welcome home.”

Vulpes Inculta smirked.

“And as for you,” the boy darkened his voice. “Don’t even think to escape.”

The khan ambassador lifted his chin, bloody head held high. Somewhere along the journey he had resigned himself to this fate. “The spirits watch me now,” he replied.

Vulpes had attempted to elicit more information from this ridiculous person, but it seemed that the khan held out for grander prospects. If he wished to deliver his message to Caesar himself, so be it.

As they made their way to the Fort, Vulpes wondered what to make of a praetorian guard as a personal escort. Although it was a sign of respect that befitted his station, Vulpes preferred the freedom to come and go as he pleased. He decided that this duty might be an errand to keep the boy busy, away from our lord’s tent and our lord’s current favorite.

Halfway along their ascent, Gabban made his presence known. Vulpes thought the boy was certainly improving. His usual attempts at stealth were more than adequate for a legionary scout but passable for a brother of their order. It felt like hide and seek with a child.

Vulpes nodded once to greet his young brother, and then his sunglassed eyes moved on. Two mohawked instructors were shouting down below in the washes. It looked like they were holding a footrace among the younger boys. It would be challenging, given how the loose desert soils would give way underfoot. And-- ah! There went one falling. He would be singled out and beaten for certain.

Young Gabban looked the khan over, head to toe, and then he reached out a hand to touch a bloody bird-wing of hair. His face held a look of curiosity and playful contempt. For the youngest frumentarius, it seemed that the initial reaction was amusement as to the costume and appearance of the khan ambassador.

For Vulpes Inculta, it had been this: that their brother Karlus, living among the khans, would surely be tortured and put to death in answer.

“Don’t touch, Gabban.”

“He’s only got one wing.. it can’t fly away now.” Gabban leaned his face very close to the khan's and made a cry like a prairie chicken. Bacaw!

The praetorian Sextus led them into the gates, and the hostile eyes of the fort fell on the khan ambassador as they came through. The sibyl’s strident voice rose and fell as she gave forth her nonsensical prophecy. Vulpes no longer believed her the conduit of the supernatural.

Why had Apollo withheld from her the ambush in Boulder City?

Were we then to believe that Diana had blessed the scopes of First Recon?

The gods no longer showed Kuchira the way of things to come. Perhaps they never did. She was, after all, a traitor to her own father and the gods punish the disloyal.

Her mad rantings were her own.

They did not escape her eye and as they passed, her undulating arms brought down strange gestures upon them. There was a doughy fatness on them these days. Her right hand made horns on the khan envoy.

Gabban and Sextus appeared unnerved to see this, but the khan met her affront with wounded dignity. “Call to your demons all you like,” he said, “soon you will see who the gods favor.”

Caesar sat arrayed in his power, a cold smirk on his face, enjoying a massage from that terrible woman. Her giant mannish hands worked his shoulders and two other concubines rubbed his calves. The two were usual favorites, a stunning redhead with freckles like cat spots, and a girl with soft brown curls who never spoke. Any more.

Vulpes held back a sigh. If only fifteen minutes had delayed them. If he interrupted now, their lordship was bound to be in a mood.

At least he had these other women with him now. Vulpes had argued as best he could that there were plenty of females who craved his attention and posed him no harm.

Gabban gave the khan envoy a shove, putting him down to his knees.

Vulpes thumped a salute. “Domine,” he said. “I present you Lizard Catcher, who speaks for the Great Khan.”

Their lord hardly looked interested in the proceedings. In a tone of contempt, he muttered, “What excuses have you brought me, Lizard Catcher?”

The silver cuff glinted on Polyhymnia’s arm as she continued the massage. She had very large arms for a female. Muscular.

The khan envoy kept his head high, even as he had to hunch slightly, his arms bound behind his back. “Before Cottonwood Cove, I came to tell you that we khans need time to consult the spirit world. The lights in the sky have been a sign.” Bitterness seeped from his words. “But your men have laid hands on me in your camp, treated me like an animal. I tell you that we will not fight your battle for you. We will not be the Iron Lines, we will not be Twisted Hairs. All that go to you, go away forever.”

Caesar closed his eyes, yet his eyebrows lifted. “Is that all, are you finished?” The red-headed slave girl began to nuzzle her cheek against his shin, her mocking eyes on the battered envoy. The other girl smiled.

Polyhymnia had stopped.

“Before you kill me, know this,” said the khan in a voice that shook, “on the long night we will call the spirits and the dead. They will take your men howling into the abyss.”

“The lights in the sky are a sign from Mars,” Caesar replied, cracking open one eye. Then another. “Your tribe will fall, as all others fell before you. You are drug-addled idiots and liars, cowards and thieves. You might have mixed with the tribes left to die in the wasteland, but on the inside, you are a frightened people cowering in the darkness of your vault. We didn’t need you, never needed you.”

He made a dismissive cut with his hand. Ignatius and Herennius stepped up to take him.

The khan spat in his direction. The slave women hissed and jeered in response, and Ignatius cracked a hand across his face. They jostled him to his feet, took him out, and Gabban followed.

Caesar looked unimpressed. His eyes followed the khan out, and then they moved on to the remaining frumentarius. His eyelid twitched. “Vulpes Inculta.”

“Yes, domine?”

The redheaded girl had begun to stroke their lord’s calf and thigh again, teasing with her fingers. She looked contented. Polyhymnia no doubt held her reservations. She was too old to go back on her ways.

“Where were they going to have their little song and dance? Did he say anything to you?”

Vulpes inclined his head. “The Mountain of Sorrow, my lord. Coyote Tail Ridge. The high hills are nearer to the heavens, and the souls of the dead are thick there.”

“Also called Bitter Springs. The NCR has some sort of pity-party camp there.”

“Yes, I have seen it myself,” replied Vulpes. He had drawn half-remembered patterns in white clay slurry on his body when he went, and he went as the tribal scout Waahanitsay. “Not much to speak of, my lord-- perhaps a handful of recruits, a doctor, and an officer. They distribute food and medicine to the sick, young, and infirm.”

“How many men? Not many.”

“No, domine. Too old or too young. The camp could not defend itself without the high ground or the NCR, whom, of course, they scorn for feeding and healing them.”

“How many will they bring to this ritual?”

“I could not say, my lord, but many who participate will more than likely incapacitate themselves with substances.”

“The long night is the solstice.”

“Yes, my lord. They celebrate for several nights in coming, as we do with our Brumalia.”

Caesar shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with blunt fingers, pinching away the headache surely coming on. It was discouraging a sign as to see the slave girls begin to tease and pleasure him. Either way he sensed he would have to be quick with his report.

“My lord.”

There was no reply.

“Domine.”

"What," came the growl.

Vulpes needed to bring this out. He thought of the chaos in Cottonwood Cove, the stench, the men jeering as they shoved the khan envoy about like a common slave. And what that now meant. “It was Aurelius who jeopardized an alliance with the khans. He acted without you."

Without opening his eyes, Caesar grunted, "They were worthless to us anyway.”

“Of course, domine," Vulpes went on, trying to keep his frustration from his voice. “But I am concerned for our brother Karl. I have sent a message this morning to warn him, but I do not know that it will reach him quicker than the news of what has happened to the khan envoy at Cottonwood Cove.”

“He’ll get out, or he’ll die. You trained him. And he knew the risks. I’m tired of your complaining, Vulpes-- get out.”

“Domine.”

Lucius tried to catch his eye, mouthing the word no.

“I said get out.”

“About Orion Moreno.”

Caesar stopped Lucius with a slight motion of his hand.

"He said yes. I struck a deal.”

"Fine." Caesar shoved at the redhead with his knee, and then sat straighter. He nudged Polyhymnia's hands with his jaw, to make her start rubbing again. “What is it.”

“He has the weapons, the armor, and a flying machine. All are in working condition as demonstrated by him in their underground lair. He has agreed to furnish us the weapons and to answer his calling. I will need to send a runner to the capital, but I have traded him these for NCR interrogation records.”

“A vertibird? It works?"

“I cannot say, my lord, but the engine started and the blades moved.”

“Where did you get NCR interrogation records?”

For a moment, Vulpes considered the full story-- the raid-- the horrible confessions of a dying people-- the lonesome man who listened to the voices of the dead and told Fox that he sometimes felt he had been born at the wrong time. Instead, Vulpes said: “They were discovered years ago, a box of holotapes.”

"Why the hell would he want that?”

“They are voice recordings of Enclave personnel taken in the raids. They hold scientific knowledge and sentimental value to their comrades who survived.” As well as political damage, if one cared about the intrigues of the Bear. Their lord did not-- not at this time. A bad time for everything important. They would talk again and Vulpes would have to make him understand that Aurelius could not be trusted.

That Lanius could not be trusted.

Caesar waved a hand, uncaring. “Then send a runner. If he’ll agree to all that for a box of junk, so be it." He sounded vaguely disgusted. “Lucius.”

The praetorian came at once to the arm of his throne.

“Send word to Cottonwood. I want Centurion Rutilius ready for the long night. They’ll march on Bitter Springs.”

“It will be done. How many men do you wish him to send?”

“All of them.”

Lucius and Vulpes exchanged a glance. “That is almost a hundred men, domine,” the praetorian said.

Caesar snapped, “That’s what a century means.”

Vulpes sank to one knee, smartly. “My lord.. I do not doubt it will take brave Rutilius and his entire command to cut down a passel of old and sickly men. However it has been four years since we have pushed outside our bounds with so many soldiers.”

“Four years is long enough.”

“The Bear considered the taking of Nelson a great offensive with only twenty.”

“And that wasn’t enough, was it?”

A bad idea. Their lord would realize it later, when he was better rested. The movement of too many soldiers. Even ten would be enough. “That was different, my lord," Vulpes pointed out. “The First Recon man was there at Nelson, the one they talk about.”

Caesar let out a snarl when his beloved muse squeezed too hard with those giant, mannish hands. She gasped that she was sorry-- the first time Vulpes had ever heard that terrible woman say that word.

“I won't say it again," Caesar growled, then. “Rutilius will have his orders. His centuria, all of them, and on the solstice. I’m tired of the khans and their little games." His thin lips contorted in something half a grin, half a grimace. “I want to send them a message. I want to see fire on the mountain. I want to see it from here."

Vulpes bowed his head. “Your will shall be done, my lord.”

“Throw him out, Lucius.”


	12. Chapter 12

The fading sun sank red against the distant mountains. With the dying of the day, the military drills were drawing down. Slaves hurried to finish the last preparations for the first night of festivities, humping by with furniture and panels of canvas, cookware and other sundries. From his vantage point, Vulpes Inculta watched two half-grown teenage boys try to drag a recalcitrant brahmin up the tiers of the hill. The beast stood fast, pawing the ground, letting out a low sound of protest. Still, the rope tugged at the brass ring through its sensitive nostril. It would go.

Vulpes took a certain pleasure in the mysteries of Brumalia. Before coming to the Legion, before the burning of his encampment, the turning of the season was even then regarded as a time of change and portent. His people believed also in the power of the Long Night, but for them it was the night of the Silver Lady, the Huntress, the moon. He had a dim memory of the clan matriarch drawing on his arms and forehead with a slurry of clay pigment. Her face had been lined and kindly. Wise.

Yet the gods had not answered her cries when the Flesh People came for them.

He wondered, sometimes, what would have happened if the raiders had not fired their tents and gunned down their people. If he had not been taken. If his family had lived. He would have grown to be a scout like his father, or tutored in magic, perhaps. He would have lived and died in ignorance.

When he found Tiberia, she was lighting little clay lamps of oil at the altar in the western alcove. When He Walks Away Alone had found this place, he dedicated the rocky shelter to the Lady-at-the-crossroads, whom he insisted had shown him the way. The sibyl ignored his vision and claimed it for Great Mars instead; the leanings of his former tribe to Hekata were considered too dangerous to encourage.

Vulpes saw no harm in it. If Hekata had shown him the way, then who could argue against a goddess? And those concerned with subversion had nothing to fear from the dead. The Twisted Hairs were lost to history and the Witchwomen lost to the wasteland.

The western light favored Tiberia, turning her gown to soft pink and orange, her coils of dark hair shining with a gleam like copper. There was a softness to her face and upper arms, but even after six children she still possessed considerable charm. The birth of four sons and years of devotion had elevated her status among the people. From a young age, even before she cast eyes on the Legion, it was said the gods spoke to her in the darkness of the vault and guided her to light.

Fox watched her a time as she lit the lamps. He made no real effort to conceal his presence, choosing a seat on a ledge of dusty stone. After his wash he had chosen a plain tunica dyed a dull red with soapberries, cinched it with a leather belt without ornament, and pulled on the straps of calf-leather caligulae. He had a thin fang of a dagger hidden away in case of need, a shaman’s tribal weapon he had taken for a trophy four summers back. He wore no other conspicuous sign of rank or station save for a ring on his thumb, with which he turned absently with two long fingers.

After a time, Fox spoke her name.

She turned immediately when she found she was not alone. A slight smile appeared once she took him in.

“I did not think you would arrive before the solstice,” he said.

Her smile gleamed now in her eyes. There was much of her brother in her face. “Nor did I, the way the Lions lagged. Gemellus had ten of them put to death.. “ Her head turned as she lit a new lamp. “You should have seen how light their steps became!”

“It seems to me a waste, but it is his business if he thinks he has too many men to manage.” Fox knew as well as anyone that little fear could pay great dividends, but he found himself irritated these days at such avoidable losses. Perhaps because his own squad numbered so few. “The Satyrs and the Lions, then. How was the capital?”

She shrugged gently. “Dirty. Crowded. I am happy enough for the solitude of the desert. I feel the gods more keenly here.”

“Rutilius of the Cyclopes claims he killed Captain McKay of the Arizona company. Is this true?”

“His men fought like demons in the night, but we found them out and brought them to justice. Now McKay is only a story to frighten the children.”

They had said that twice before. McKay was a stubborn one and the Arizona rangers were tough as cactus. “You have seen his body?”

Tiberia smiled. “Why yes, and so can you, silly fox.. There are pieces of it nailed all along Santa Fe Avenue. Can’t miss it.”

Hm.

He supposed they would discover the truth one way or another. There was of course a desert ranger defector among their ranks.. perhaps Camurius could verify, but then, it had always been unspoken and understood that Charley was not to be involved in the affairs of his former unit. Even though they had left him wounded and dying in the sand. Even a man betrayed could still possess loyalty and honor.

“And you, Vulpes, are you busy here with all your little dealings? How is the Strip?” There was a playful waver in her voice that gave away her meaning.

“Tawdry, bright, and loud, as always,” he replied.

“You drink deep of their poison.”

“It is my lot to do so. My faith preserves me.”

She blew out her little flame and turned to face him, then, standing so lovely against the altar and all the warm lamps. “I worry about you,” she told him.

He smiled a small chill smile. “No sense to start now, my dear,” he replied. He recalled the pervading agony of radiation sickness after the Searchlight mission, the totality of its misery and helplessness, and how her cool eyes set upon him briefly before she turned to tell Lucius it was the will of the gods.

Their gaze met. He permitted a certain freedom in her speech to him, an allowance granted to her position and to her intelligence. He wanted her to tell him what she really thought, or what she wanted him to think she thought.

There was a time when you would see more of women like Silva, Ophelia, and Yucca Leaf; he hoped that time would come again. But perhaps not another Silva Robinson.

“I saw you in my dream last night,” began Tiberia, in that far-off voice of hers. “The spirit world is thin here... There is old magic buried in this hill.”

They all whispered about the weather station, the eerie sighs and clanks and groans that seemed to rise up from the ground from time to time.

He knew enough of her to believe the dream that she would tell him, but he also knew enough of her mistress the sibyl. It seemed they were always preparing a narrative to drive the men one way or another-- perhaps now they prepared his removal. His disloyalty to Caesar. His drinking and wenching in the Strip.

“And in this vision,” he murmured, “what was my evil?”

Tiberia looked away. He had once desired her. That fine jaw and high cheek. “I cannot say,” she answered. “You were lost in darkness.”

He anticipated a familiar element that had everyone talking. Perhaps she would try to tie this in: “And was there a light in the darkness?” he asked.

“There was no light. You went in shadow, moving through the underworld.. the armies of the dead awaited you. The armor of the dead adorned you.”

This he did not expect.

“Your hands held a coin for the boatman,” she said, “and you spoke in blood.”

“What did I say?”

“It was not clear to me. It all fell away in a roar.”

His palms had grown slick. The thumb-ring was easy to manipulate now. “What else?”

The look of anxiety, he judged, was genuine. “Picus was there also.”

To take a direct approach, he asked, “What do you think it means?” in case the sibyl should point her claw at him. He should like to know beforehand of what he was accused.

“Your spirit is in jeopardy. Your order moves between two worlds.. You go between the living and the dead. They cling to death, the people of the vault, the people of the west. They made machines and tools their god, and their god failed. I worry you will make a poor decision.”

“My heart is true. You know that.”

As the drums began below, Tiberia said softly, “This may be your final solstice, Vulpes Inculta.”

“Then I should hope the festivities don’t disappoint.” 

...

The brahmin wore a garland of greenery, both heads nodding low as they led it to sacrifice. Masked dancers in dried grass and animal skins went hop-jumping by, banging on hand drums, meant to represent the followers of Thunder Jaguar-- prince of madness and revelation, younger brother to their Red God.

Wind instruments played in thin strains. Silus of Satyr Centuria was given the honor of cutting the beast’s throat, and the sibyl chirped and cried out like a coyote, her palms held to the air. It was said that in the morning they would hold a formal review of the cohort so recently arrived.

Roasting smells permeated the camp, yet Fox found that it made him faintly nauseous. He recalled Cottonwood Cove all too quickly. He wondered what they had done with Lizard Catcher, the khan envoy. Lucius told him not to worry about it, and to go away, for gods’ sakes, Caesar would speak with him in the morning.

Poor brother Karl. He hoped sincerely that the man made it out alive.

Youths carrying torches went by. A dancer with little ankle bells jumped and jingled, a White Leg by the look of his tattoos and mane.

The outer clinic was empty, but firelight glowed through the canvas.

Siri stirred a boiling pot of bandages. She always saved scraps and cuttings for them. She looked up as he ducked into her tent, and then she dipped down to her knees. Appropriate, but unnecessary. He motioned for her to return to her business, setting aside a leather satchel for her.

He sat himself cross-legged among some ratty cushions. They had come from a pre-war sofa, the upholstery saved and re-stuffed with clean straw.

Siri served him the rations he brought. Cuts of meat wrapped in corn husks, soft tortillas, and dried yucca fruit. He ate first and she followed, crouching nearby. She clearly savored the fresh beef.

It was not his way to talk while eating. They ate in relative ease and silence, listening to the sounds below, the drumming and piping, the roar of the crowd. Perhaps some martial or athletic feat performed somewhere. There were always races and games.

Siri caught his eye from time to time, and nodded once, as to express thanks for the meal. When she had finished, she brought him a warm bowl of water from the fire and he washed his hands in it. She did the same. He preferred to be clean and appreciated that she always thought of this.

“Gabban tells me there was trouble on the night of the hunting party.”

“The dominus had a seizure.”

“What kind? Staring? Convulsing?”

“The shaking kind. He locked up very tight. Everyone was very afraid.”

Fox was annoyed to think that their lord should suffer that indignity in front of guests. He leaned a long arm on his knee and began again. “Perhaps you should tell me from the beginning. Did it happen before the meal or after? Who was present?”

“It was after the meal. They didn’t come for me until after it happened, so I don’t know how it came around. Lucius sent for me. He was there, and Polyhymnia.. Three or four others, maybe. Some people ran away.”

“Were any of the centurions present? Was the sibyl there?”

“No. There was a run-in with her earlier.. She thought the lights were a sign that Polyhymnia was to be given to Mars.”

Fox sighed. He could certainly see where that particular confrontation was inevitably headed. This whole business with the woman was entirely vexing. Canyon Runner was an idiot for involving himself in the petty squabbles of the profligates.

"Who else?”

“Sorry. There was a centurion there, Ru.. Ra.. “

“Rutilius.”

“Yes. He was visibly frightened.”

“I am sure of it.”

“Was he capable of speech?”

Siri may have been attempting humor. There was that weary smirk of hers. “Rutilius? His voice was very high.. “

“The Caesar.”

“I heard them say he started speaking very strangely, like he wasn’t aware of what was happening around him. He became very upset about the centurion who died.”

“The one whose skull they are bringing back. That one?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say.”

“He seemed to think that.. I don’t know. That he was angry with Caesar. His spirit.”

“Ah.”

“Lucius had to talk him down. Polyhymnia said we would give him a burial and it would be all right again.”

Fox stared into the fire for a long moment, watching it flicker and glow. Twisty pieces of mesquite were the fuel and it smelled pleasant. Siri seemed to understand there was more, but she was patient, returning to her task of boiling bandages.

She saved any scraps and cuttings that she could, and some of the younger trainees brought her supplies they had found in their travels. She did a fine job with what she had available to her, and she was in the perfect position to provide him with what he needed to know-- what the women whispered when they were alone, the weakness or ailments of others, and countless conversations round the encampment. She had an excuse to be anywhere, and so far as they knew, she had never attempted to escape.

Her intelligence and strength of character were an asset, kept her positive and cooperative, even if it meant she would never come round to accepting their gods and their ways. She bided her time. She held out on the hope of eventual freedom. He knew that, let her think what she wished-- it would be a waste to crush her spirit.

Now she was squeezing water out of the bandages in handfuls, giving them a twist. He felt an unexpected sharp twinge when she did so.

“I require your medical opinion and your perfect frankness," he said slowly after awhile. “You know I won't punish you for anything you say in confidence to me.”

She must know where this was going. Her large dark eyes remained on him, even as she turned away to begin hanging bandages out for drying. It reminded him vaguely of the way they made pasta noodles in the hotel restaurants.

“Seizures, both staring into space and full out convulsions, lapses of reality, personality changes.. headaches. What does this suggest to you, in your medical opinion?”

Siri said softly, “I’m no doctor.”

Ah, that again. “You have tended to more injuries in the past three years than most have in thirty.”

Her frustration sounded thick in her throat. “Chopping off arms and legs, digging out bullets, sewing up cuts. Field medicine. I’m a sawbones-- I.. I’m not qualified to diagnose anything advanced. I don't have a way of knowing for sure.”

Of knowing for sure. Knowing what. He knew.

Fox followed her eyes when she cast away a hurt look. “I’m not trying to trick you,” he said. “You can tell me what you think. I prefer it, you know that. If you have reason to believe someone may have a tumor I would not question your medical opinion.”

So there it was.

Perhaps it was easier for him to say it aloud. Her eyes fell, and she nodded her shaved head, almost guiltily. Then her chin tucked in close to her collar. “I really have no way of knowing for sure," she said. “It's.. You would need a scan, a physician trained especially in that field. Even in the larger cities a doctor like that would be hard to find.”

“The Followers of the Apocalypse have a presence here. It is said their medicine is the most advanced in the known world.”

Siri tensed. He understood and let it drop. She wouldn't want to be responsible for another's capture.

“What.. do you think he should do?” she asked quietly after a moment. “Perhaps he should.. return to Flagstaff, bring everything back into order. Make preparations."

Her face was almost hopeful.

Fox gave an elegant shrug. “It is not for me to say." To her. To their lord, he would recommend the choice of a more worthy successor, one he could groom into proper lordship. One that was respected and rational. In the meanwhile, Fox would do all he could to provide care for their lord's mortal body.

Perhaps Orion Moreno might know a solution.

The man mentioned there were others, and in the Old World tomb, Fox had spied the supplies and the tools of a physician. The skills of an Enclave medicus would be formidable. It was said the doctors of the Old World could copy a man from a drop of blood, that they make monsters and mutants, that they could bring the dead to life or make a man live forever-- like Robert House.

Siri continued her work. Her mood had lifted, he could sense that. Somewhere their mood intersected-- hers rising with the hope that he would release her if they abandoned the fort, and his falling with the prospects of their lord's earthly demise. He had had his suspicions for awhile, though nothing had been proven. Yet..

She had taken the last handful of bandages from the pot, squeezed out the hot water and set them to dry. Her hands were warm and wet when they stroked his neck and face.


	13. Chapter 13

The desert winter sun shone on the armor and weapons of the gathered cohort. Blasts from a horn and the shouts of the centurion called them into ranks.

The legate and his Centaurs were seen to inspect them. It seemed like the entire assembled host held a collective breath as the giant stepped out among them. It was said his heavy gold mask weighed more than some men could lift with one hand. His sword stood taller than some of the soldiers.

The Son of Mars presided over it all on the battlements above.

Gemellus commanded the cohort as the senior centurion, with Silus the junior. He was a proud and sneering warrior at the lead of the Satyrs. Their forces were arrayed in a sea of crimson.

Vulpes felt a deep quake of excitement, taking in the sight of the wolf skins of the vexillarii and their red standards. The glimmering golden eagles. He watched from the vantage point of the alcove shrine, and his flesh prickled once the sibyl sang the invocation.

Gemellus and Silus approached the Caesar, drew off their helms, knelt and pledged their allegiance.

A priestess of Iron Line origins came to them, dipped her fingers in oil, and marked their foreheads.

Vulpes shivered to behold the great host assembled before them. This was only a taste of what was to come. He saw the Satyrs, Lions, Titans, the Boars and the Hydras, the Scorpions looking grim-faced as usual, and the lethal mob of a century, the Centaurs. It was the legate’s old command, and even though it was relinquished to the horrifying centurion Bonesplitter, they were now and forever his creatures.

The Minotaurs remained across the river in their filth, and the Cyclopes would even now begin their march to Bitter Springs.

Despite the shame of their defeat, Caesar eventually decreed that the Boar Centuria and the Hydras be brought back to life from their loss at Boulder City. They would reclaim the golden eagles of their banners from their captivity in Camp McCarran. Picus reported that the eagles were in a locked cabinet in the colonel’s office, along with a prime bottle of whiskey, and that they were sometimes brought out for unit morale events.

Vulpes made Picus swear on his honor that those sacred symbols would be returned to their centuries.

The Son of Mars looked in rare form, strong and alert, looking regal. He wore the black furs of a wolf he slew himself, driving a spear into one of its skulls.

Vulpes turned away and knelt before the altar. He spoke a prayer to the goddess who had shown their scout the way into the Mojave. The lady-who-stands-at-the-crossroads, the Dark Goddess, the Triple Goddess, mistress of magic and changing fortunes, who appeared as a beautiful maiden with haunted eyes and three black dogs who followed at her heels.

He drew a blade across his hand. He held his palms to the sky.

...  
The arena slaves showed little motivation until Otho released the ants. They were giants of the soldier caste, furious with chopped antenna to make them frenzy.

Caesar was in a bright mood, chuckling as he popped a date in his mouth. The delicacies came from the old groves outside Yuma, where pre-war plantations had grown wild once their minders died. Their lord’s slaves, bodyguard, and personal entourage were settled all about him as he took in the show.

That unfortunate woman Esperanza was there, and even seated by his side, you could tell how freakishly tall she was. As Fox suspected, she only became interested in the performance once it was pointed out to her that an NCR ranger was among the filthy slaves below.

Fox watched it all through tinted lenses. He was kitted out in the armor and wolf hood of his station. When their lord’s attention seemed to flag for a moment, he decided to approach the dominus with a better proposal. The Son of Mars should really not be disturbed, but it was a pressing matter to Vulpes Inculta. There was still time to send word to halt Cyclops Centuria.

“My lord. May I suggest a different course of action instead of a raid on Bitter Springs?”

Caesar smiled. “No,” he said, popping in another date.

Nevertheless, Fox continued, in hopes of checking this order before the Cyclopes had gotten very far. “I could easily sabotage their chem labs. I know their location and it would be nothing to rig an explosion. Not only would it frighten them, it would directly impact their ability to create their toxins.”

“I said no.”

The crowd gasped when one the slaves lost an arm in the click of ant mandibles.

Caesar made a casual flutter of his fingertips and one of the slave girls now attempted to feed Vulpes a date. The frumentarius rounded their lord’s chair and reappeared at his left hand.

“My lord, it would be no trouble at all—“

“Fine. Then do it. But I’m not standing down on Bitter Springs. It’s is a symbol to the khans, the tribals, and the NCR. It’s both holy ground.. and a mark of shame.”

The irritating slave female persisted in her attempts and Fox was finding it difficult to ignore her. He was careful not to respond in any way; if he did he knew he would reveal his growing impatience. His frustration. He wasn’t angry, well no, not at their lord. Aurelius. He was the one who caused all of this to sour.

Caesar put a hand in Esperanza’s thick hair. “Don’t you want a bite, Vulpes?” He always seemed to take great amusement whenever his concubines accosted his person. “You know they say you’re poisoning me.”

“Alas,” said Fox, “I am discovered.”

Herennius gasped and moved to power on his displacer gauntlet; Lucius gripped him by the arm and shook his head with an absurd expression.

“A rare day when Lucius of all people has to explain sarcasm to you,” remarked Caesar with a laugh. “Oh look! The brave ranger Stella rallies her troops.”

Fox’s mind whirred ahead. It would be easy to sabotage the khan chemical lab. He should take Gabban for instruction. It was time. He remembered how Silva snicked shut the metal handcuff over his wrist, motioned to the briefcase thereby connected, and told him, “You have five minutes to disarm it.. give or take.”

She had been annoyed by his careful and methodical response. She slapped him full across the face and hissed, “You didn’t think it was for real? You didn’t think I’d do it?”

She had misunderstood. He hadn’t doubted her ability to arm the explosives. He had reached a point where he no longer feared to die. She never understood that about him. She never crossed that threshold herself.

That was why he killed her in her sleep. He had, after all, despite everything, respected her.

If the gods allowed, Fox might find the remains of their brother Karl among the khan encampments. They would crucify him, of course. They would not know how to do it properly, some amateurish nails-through-the-palm configuration no doubt. Once he recovered Karl he could perform the funeral rites to allow his spirit proper passage across the waters of hell.

As for the Cyclopes.. 

Fox knew it was within their capacity to take the mountain. Even rough terrain and perilous cliffs would mean little in the long run, with a hundred battle-hardened men against a sickly encampment. A hundred men. Strictly unnecessary.

“My lord,” Fox began again, “the last I saw of the encampments, there were a number of juveniles. At least permit—“

“No, no more, I don’t want screaming khan bastards scampering around here. They’re all trouble.” Their lord fixed him with an annoyed squint. “And probably drug-addled anyway. Let nature take its course. What happened with those shriveled up things you brought here from Nelson, anyway?”

“Nipton, sire.”

“Don’t correct me. They died, didn’t they? Of course they did, with all the poisons their stupid whore mothers put in their bodies.”

Fox bowed his head.

Caesar pointed a thick finger at him. “You’re really starting to piss me off, Vulpes. If you mention Bitter Springs, the khans, the anything again, I’ll send you down to the legate’s camp with an apple in your mouth.”

His facial expression must have betrayed him, lenses be damned, because their lord began to laugh and several of the shrill slave women also.

“I know you’re mad about Aurelius, but I was going to do that anyway,” Caesar replied. He waved it off. “Now tell me again about the Enclave records.”

“They were discovered in an outpost forgotten by the NCR—“

“I don’t care. It’ll take two weeks to get them? A week?”

“Sooner than that, but I will have to dispatch a runner today.”

“Fine. You know what. You never told me you knew anything about that.”

“My lord.. you never asked.”

“Bullshit excuse. You should keep me informed. That’s your job.”

“Yes my lord. They were never an issue until now.. we all thought them dead.”

“You think Kimball will back down?”

“He can’t now. Word has spread that he is coming to the dam. It is now a matter of honor.”

“So Orion Moreno will trade you the records for access to the bunker.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You could just torture it out of him.”

“They are taught to withstand physical coercion. I am certain I am equal to the task, but it is easier to secure his cooperation in this manner.”

“He has the energy weapons.”

“Yes, my lord. He demonstrated them for me. They appear in working order.”

“Good. We’ll need them, since it looks like neither the Gun Runners or the van Graffs will be helping us.”

“My lord—“

“No. I want to watch the rest of this, just as it’s getting interesting. I don’t want your whiny little voice in my ear.”

“As you wish, domine.”

Ranger Stella had led her filthy band of terrified slaves to an unlikely victory in the pit. The crowd was mixed in its reaction, hissing and roaring, and when Caesar rose to his feet, the sound went through your bones.

He held his arm straight out, his thumb parallel to the ground. He was deciding whether the slaves lived or died.

Ranger Stella gave a defiant howl.

Esperanza dared to grab the edge of his garment, as though to beg for clemency.

Stella screamed two words that cut through the crowd.

Caesar smiled as he turned his thumb. “She’ll get what’s coming to her,” he said. “I know the centurion from the Lions has been dying to meet her.”

Esperanza appeared shocked, her fingers on her lips.

Stella screamed it again. _TRAITOR WHORE. TRAITOR WHORE_.

...

“Tell me something,” Caesar began later as they walked the battlements. He had dismissed the majority of his entourage. “What are the men saying about Decimus.”

“He was a colorful character,” Fox replied,” and well-liked.”

“They didn’t know about him?”

Fox sensed where this was going. “If you insinuate his more unfortunate character flaw.. “

“I mean are they talking about how much a faggot he was,” Caesar griped. “I’m going to be standing up there and giving him honors. I want to know what they’re saying about that, about _me_.”

“There were rumors about his proclivities but I do not believe it will be an issue. He was well-liked, my lord.”

Caesar harrumphed. “Graham said that we should hate the sin, love the sinner.”

Carefully, Fox replied: “Who, my lord?”

“He was wrong, of course. He made allowances for Marcus, the way Marcus was. It was a fatal weakness.”

Fatal, Fox thought, only if you chose to kill someone over it.

As if the dominus had heard his thoughts, he went on, “You know we had him killed.”

Another test, perhaps. The hard little eyes of the dominus were on him now and Fox considered his response. Lucius, too, was watching him, was pleading with his eyes, but Fox did not look away from Caesar’s face. A cold prickle went across his skin. He was in dangerous territory.

“I had heard he died a hero in the Utah campaign,” Fox replied.

“I had him killed,” Caesar snapped.

“He died a hero in the Utah campaign.”

Caesar reddened, and then the knot of anger went out of his face once he caught on to what Fox meant. “Silva didn’t tell you,” he said.

He of course always suspected. The signs were there: the frenzy of a rampage after the news had broken, then the weird hush and unease. The shaming of Hell Hound Centuria. How no one really seemed to know what to do.. there weren’t even any funerary rites, any funeral games. Only that eerie silence and the breathy excitement from the monster without a nose or lips or face.

Lucius cleared his throat softly. The sound brought Fox back to the present. Caesar was watching him for a response. This was too important to slip mentally away.

“No, my lord, she did not.. his death occurred before I joined the order.”

Their lord seemed to deem his answer appropriate. Caesar said, “After that whole mess in the arena.. it became obvious to me that we would be facing civil war. Maybe not right then. But I couldn't afford that division. We all discussed it at length.”

Fox listened. The sensation of coldness seeped now into his belly.

“It was easier when we thought Lanius was dead. When the dog savaged him. But when he came staggering into the tent without a face.. ready for duty.. we knew there was going to have to be a choice.”

Fox said nothing. The lump in his throat prevented any unwise remarks.

“We always had trouble with Decimus,” Caesar went on, then; he couldn’t be blind to the shameful look that overtook Fox’s face. “He would fight any raider, any fiend.. he had a way with the tribals. But he was stubborn when it came to the western people. After he defeated the rangers at Yuma.. we knew we couldn't ask him to do that again. He had an emotional, mental failing that Graham tried to cure for years. We were too lenient. The choice came down to Marcus.. and to Lanius. At least the Butcher would follow orders.”

Yet he will lead our people into ruin, Fox thought, tried not to think it. He fought to keep it from his face. 

Caesar did not seem to notice. He was looking out, away, at his massive fortification and all that lay beyond it. In a tone of voice that now approached magnanimity, the dominus said: “Graham argued that Marcus had served us loyally and that an execution would exacerbate the problem. So I allowed him to die a hero's death, and no one had to know.”

“You sent Gnaius of Scottsdale and Ludo,” Fox said. He remembered the suddenness of their double execution. Silva’s meteoric rise to power. “What did they do to him.”

Lucius was mouthing the word no when he caught Fox’s eye, but Caesar only paused, said, “I gave them precise orders and they didn’t do what I told them to. Anyhow he was too far gone at that point.. “ He waved his hand. “It was a hard decision to make, but I kept him from shaming himself and his unit. He would have betrayed us to the NCR. Did you know that?”

His imagination twisted with images of the cruelty that Gnaius and Ludo must have wrought, and for a few moments, the words of the dominus did not yet catch up. Betrayal to the NCR. “No, my lord, I know nothing about that.”

Caesar smiled, then, thinly; he liked to be the sole purveyor of knowledge. “His men would have to fight against him. You would have to fight against him.”

So strange was this notion that Fox croaked, “My lord, I— no.” No, don’t say anything.

With that same thin smile, deadly know, Caesar prompted him with, “What.”

“Nothing, sire.”

“You don't think he would have. You think I’m wrong.”

“No, my lord.”

“Well, you’re wrong. I had doubts as well but in the end I knew it was the right choice. Where to begin. Did you know that he once captured an NCR officer and let her go?”

There was a light bounce in the characteristically rough voice of their lord, again, as though he possessed a vastness of intelligence on the subject and had decided to dispense a few key tidbits.

“Yes,” Fox said. Everyone knew that story.

A note of displeasure crept into the Caesar’s response. “You do, then.”

“Yes. She led a scout party. A young lieutenant. They were harassing the Hounds on an unrelated mission against raiders. He finally captured her and was surprised to discover she was a small female.”

“He let her go,” Caesar growled.

“He made her carry ammunition for a couple of days, lecturing her, but he released her.” Fox added, “At the time we were not so opposed.”

“She was an enemy officer,” Caesar said slowly, “and he released her! Without telling _ME_!”

“I suppose it was different at the—“

“An _ENEMY OFFICER_.”

Fox bowed his head. Everyone knew that story, joked about it. But he ought to be careful. What was done was done. Yet—

“He had an entire household of pre-war items hidden away,” Caesar continued, “All of those things in his house.”

Fox feared then that the interrogation tapes may not be where he supposed they were. What if he had struck a hollow bargain with Moreno. “He had an interest in the world before.”

“Too interested. He never understood why it all fell apart. Why the NCR has no solution, why it returns like a dog to its vomit. He didn’t appreciate our purity. And he hid those things, he hid them, he knew it was wrong.”

Fox said softly, “I know, domine. He told me he didn't think the others would understand.”

This seemed to bolster their lord’s suddenly passionate mood and Caesar nodded. “See,” he said, “and his wife confessed.” That was the crux of his argument now. “She was already trying to run away when they caught her. She confessed.”

Even after six years the memory was fresh in his mind, the bloody swath across the walled villa courtyard. “After what they did.. anyone can be made to say anything. Pain becomes everything.. and you are only a body.”

Caesar cut through his recollection with an irritated bark. “Bah! They found her with packed bags and western clothing. A man's boots and set of clothing. _Who_ was that for, then, hmm?”

His voice sounded very small to himself. “That was for me, my lord.”

”What.”

“The second set was presumably for myself.” After he swallowed hard, he found volume no longer an issue. It was almost liberating now. “We had discussed running away. All of us.”

“ _WHAT._ ”

“But we never did. Marco gave us the chance to.. the two of us.. but he wished to remain with his people. And so did I.”

Lucius regarded him as though he had completely lost his mind, and perhaps he did lose his senses for a moment. He could not stop himself from speaking. Men had died for less.

For a long moment he thought his time had come. Despite the unease brought on by this conversation, he resigned himself to his fate. He did not fear to go and in truth, he knew he would not live to see thirty years.

Their lord said, then, slowly, in a tone of disgust: “You.. his wife? The Chinese girl. Lavinia.”

“Lydia,” Fox said softly.

“Right under his nose, you little shit?”

Fox felt his throat constrict again. It hadn’t—no, it hadn’t been like that. “He wanted it that way. He said he loved her but he couldn't love her like a normal man could. He wanted to give her to me but he was trying to find a way to make that acceptable.”

“You were going to run away!”

“I considered it. Yet here I stand before you.”

Caesar spat out, “He would have betrayed us. He would have nothing holding him back here. He talked to me about handing over the Hounds to his optio and retiring in Flagstaff to, to become an instructor and write his book. Now I see that he would hand off his command.. he would give his wife to you, that colossal fucking idiot, and then he would escape. Wouldn't that make it easier for everyone. He was looking for a way out in the end. Graham said he wasn't himself at the end. He'd run away to the NCR. He'd know how to.”

Fox used to wonder that at times, in the earlier years. If Marco had simply run away. Staged his death. The desire to know was intense, especially after he killed Silva and assumed control of the secret Zion mission. No one was ever very sure that he was truly dead. There were wild rumors. Yet no letters came, no cryptic signs. He was certain that Marco would not have been able to cut ties completely.. he would have found a way to communicate with them. Would have wanted to know how they were doing, him and Lydia, how many children they had and what was happening in Fox’s career.. despite how things had ended up between them, he still would have wanted to talk to Fox, wouldn’t he have?

“He would have completely devastated us,” Caesar was going on. “Do you know what damage he would have caused if he had gone over to the NCR? They even have former Arizona rangers in their ranks!”

Very quietly, Fox said, “He would never have betrayed us to the NCR. Perhaps he would run away and live like the dissolute.. but he would never ally with them against you, sire.”

“Bullshit.”

“He came to despise the NCR government. He hated the collaborators that sold their people with knowledge of Navarro.”

Caesar’s brow furrowed. He did not understand.

“He told me that while they had done horrific crimes, only the Enclave really knew how to bring the power online, to revive the dormant stations, to bring back civilization. He said there had to be a way for them to atone. He was sorry the NCR tortured and killed the scientists.. sorry that the upper crust got away while the scientists and families were killed or detained forever.”

An expression overtook their lord’s face and Fox could not read it. “Those Enclave tapes,” Caesar said. “Those are his. They're in his house.”

“Under the floorboards, my lord. He listened to them all the time. He said it was a light shining in the darkness.. snuffed out forever.”

Fox had tried to broach the topic earlier. If only he had pressed on and spoke first. If only he had been spared this conversation. He always knew, deep down, that Caesar had chosen to kill Decimus. But to hear so many excuses and stabs in the dark strung together.. it did not become the Son of Mars.

Caesar was silent for the longest time, and Fox began to wonder if he had lapsed into one of his seizures. In this painful minute, Fox prepared himself for death and for his departing words.

“Now I understand more than ever that my decision was just,” the Son of Mars intoned at last. “Marcus had a deep moral failing more serious than I ever imagined. I’m surprised you had the balls to tell me. Guess it’s your guilty conscience.”

“What will you do now, my lord?”

“This changes nothing. He would have been trouble. And I've already said what I'll do. The Hounds will present me his skull, I’ll publically forgive them, I’ll perform the rites, and no one can say I didn't honor his years of service. He's already paid for his failings, and I made sure he didn't get a chance to shame himself. That loose end is tied up. I'll chuck his skull in the weather station or something—from all that it sounds like he would have wanted it that way.”

Fox lowered his eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

Caesar’s mood seemed to return, self-assured, contemptuous. “Heh. I can't believe you fucked his wife. He saved you and that was how you repaid him, even if he was a fag.”

Fox should have known better, he had been there after all, Marcus hugging the both of them around bruised ribs, but now he was flooded with shame. “I have nothing to say for myself.”

“If you’ll do that to the man who saved your life, how could I trust you? You could have choked to death on raider cock before you were twelve.”

Fox shut his eyes.

“Swear loyalty to me.”

Fox knelt. “I swear, domine. I.. I have been impertinent.. but your servant begs your forgiveness. It is.. best you heard it from me. But I understand your reasons.”

“I made the right decision. Sometimes you have to save someone from themselves.”

“He.. he was very unhappy at the end. His obsession with the dead world was unhealthy. If—if you still permit me to give Moreno those tapes, I think he would have—“

Caesar shook his head. “Get Cato to start moving those weapons when you get them,” he said, “now that we’ve lost the Gun Runners. You’re dismissed. And Vulpes.. I can’t tell you how close you are right now. You better not even give me a reason.”

...

Fox had broken formation when he saw Marco coming out on the parade ground. The Titan centurion started to protest, but Marco put up a hand and that was that. Even beaten all to hell, bruised and bloody, he still commanded an air of authority.

Several of his men followed at a distance, and He Walks Away Alone, who attempted to appear as though he casually went his own way.

He hardly remembered what they talked about, but Marco always felt that silence needed filling. He chatted pleasantly with a split lip and croaky voice. What he had discussed with Caesar and the legate, Fox at that time did not know.

Fox had been consumed with guilt that as soon as Marco dismissed his entourage at the edge of Wheeler Park, he went on his knees to confess. He confessed immediately to impropriety and disloyalty. Begged forgiveness though he knew he did not deserve it. Marco had met him level in the scratchy grass, kneeling down though it must have pained him considerably.

“I know,” he said, “I’ve always known. I’m—I’m happy for you both. That will be hard for you to understand but.. she was very young when the legate gave her to me. I, it’s been difficult to be a proper husband and, there are.. it’s.. never mind. Her happiness is important to me, and yours as well. I’ll never be angry at you.” He smiled. “Look at me.”

Lydia saw them from the window and had come out running, flinging into his arms despite his hurt ribs. Fox would always remember how he held out his arm for Fox to join them, how they knelt there together at the edge of the park.

Fox always experienced guilt when he ran the next two days over in his mind. His supreme elation, his love for Lydia, the mercy and encouragement from Marco. How for as happy as he was on the prospect of his new life with Lydia, how black a despair that Marco had been plunged into.

One night shortly thereafter they talked in his study, like men, drinking a burning liquid from little glasses. Marco was happy for them. He loved Lydia and while he had wanted children from her he was glad the gods had not granted them any. Best for her to start her life with a man that could truly make her happy.

Fox was stunned at his generosity, at first. How he brought him from the edge of hell into his home and family, tutored him in the ways of combat, gave him the chance to become a warrior.

Then the moment soured as Marco haltingly explained he was different from other men. He needed an extra shot of tequila to get out what he wanted to say. He looked entirely unsettled and there was a deep look of pain in his eyes. 

Marco said that he was different and he had tried so hard to be normal, but he couldn’t cure it, he was so sorry about Rabbit, he never would have touched him if Rabbit hadn’t started it in the first place, they were both fifteen, and he should have let him go. He never knew that Rabbit really hated him, how much he really hated him, he felt like a monster, it was completely against nature and he was so sorry. He would have let him go. But Rabbit’s tribe was gone. Rabbit never believed he could be free. Now he was free.

Fox could hardly believe what he was hearing at the time. To discover something so hideous about someone, so unreal, something that had been wrong with them the entire time. How did Fox not notice. How did Fox not know.

“I can see you’ve lost all respect for me,” Marco had told him, “I never wanted to hurt you, not for a moment, never, it’s not like that, I—I can control it, I just wanted.. an equal.. but I know it’s wrong, and now you come back here. Listen to me, damn it. I’m going to give you my wife and I’ve lost everything, you can at least hear me out, damn it, Waahanitsay, please, I’ve lost everything—“

Somewhere in the hallway, Marco stepped on one of the dog's toys. The dog was gone too. That dog had been with him as long as he was in the legion, a parent, brother, companion, the only one who wouldn’t judge him. When Joshua Graham made him a centurion and asked him what he wanted his new century to be, Marco smiled, and knew immediately.

Now that one moment seemed to destroy him utterly. Stepping on the dog toy. Fox was completely horrified, that confession, watching his hero fall apart like that, a grown man sobbing.. that was their final conversation. Lydia begged him to understand Marco was gentle, Marco loved him like a son and brother, that it broke Marco’s heart for it to be like this, please write to him, I can’t bear for you both to be at odds. He loves you. _He’s so lonely._

But that was it. That was the end. Marco would have died thinking Fox hated him, and he would have died messy. Gnaius and Ludo would have cherished the mission to kill him. Fox thought of them, eyes dancing, grinning. They would have tortured him. They would have loved it because he was a pervert. Fox wondered what they did that would make it so difficult to scrap together his remains. What was it that Caesar wasn’t saying, that he squeamishly washed his hands of, that he insisted weren’t his orders.

Later Fox came to understand that what was wrong with Marco was completely different than the madness of the Flesh People. Marco would have never hurt him. He did not want to cause unnecessary pain to others. He truly believed in their mission of bringing order to the chaos. The light in the darkness. Later he would realize that what Marco was trying to explain was that he was desperate for an equal, for someone like him, but there would be no one like Marco.

Perhaps he would have become a threat. Perhaps not. If he did he would have hated himself for it. He loved his people, the gods, their mission. This way he died a hero. Yet could not Lydia have lived.

Fox had been too late to save her from what they did.

The Centaurs had told her at last that she could go, she could run away, but they had cut off her feet at the ankles and Fox followed the river of blood from one end of the courtyard to the other.

Her body had collapsed on the mound where Hercules was buried, her arms thrown wide over it, her bloodless face slack and grains of dirt in her open eyes.

Fox had washed her clean, fetched her missing limbs, and dressed her in her blue gown for burial. The little beaded slippers. She had not been very far along and it barely showed. It didn't matter. They would have killed it anyway. He used to wake thinking about that at night years afterward, but after the teams went through, methodically killing Graham’s children, or any children with blue eyes really, Fox knew it was useless to speculate about what might have been.

He buried her in the garden and performed the rites, the invocation to the gods, the pressing of the coin beneath her tongue. Lydia was beloved to the goddess Diana and Fox liked to believe that she went free in the world beyond this one, where the land was green, where she could run with the Huntress beyond the walls of her captivity.

Wasps were crawling in the rotten lemons in the courtyard. He remembered that detail ever after. That sick buzzing he heard in his dreams.

There had been a weird hush in the garrison. No funeral rites for Decimus. No games. No one knew what to believe. Gnaius and Ludo had been shot in the head. Silva became the leader of the frumentarii, back when there had been any women at all. Lanius grinning, always grinning, his nose and lips gone, his sticky face. He won. He won. So he was the choice that Caesar made.

Now Caesar had his man, and Lanius would ruin him. Lucius would last all of a minute when the dominus gave up his mortal body. Already the sibyl shrieked her omens, screeching about a wounded bull, black ghosts, the flash of lightning, the shadow of a mighty span of horns..

Standing in the alcove by the shrine of the hidden goddess, taking in the sound of drums as the sun began to set, Fox touched the cut in his hand and made his decision. Not one he undertook lightly. Not one that would be easy.

But did their lord not say it himself.

Sometimes you had to save someone from themselves.


	14. Chapter 14

Against his will, Lucius stood guard for the Muse at her bath.

If it weren’t for the fact that this impossible woman could not be trusted with anyone less than himself, Lucius would much rather be watching the tributes of the Roses Vista people. With ankle bells and resplendent feather necklaces, they came dancing into camp with bright smiles and pert bare breasts, brought by native retainers up out of the highlands of Mexico. Their chieftain sent these virgin beauties to their lord Caesar along with casks of blue agave as a shield against the Legion’s wrath. The gift of tequila annoyed the dominus, who had the casks burnt, and the great fires of vivid alcohol were seen from all around the fort in nighttime.

Polyhymnia washed slowly. She did not seem to mind that the dominus involved himself with the Roses Vista virgins this evening. ‘Virgins, whatta they know,’ she remarked earlier, though Lucius knew she secretly despised their lord and master.

Their lord had entertained himself by allowing women of her stature before, and they had always enjoyed the pampering of female servants until the dominus tired of them. Although the women naturally fought amongst themselves, vicious creatures they could be, the hatred and fear of the other feminae for this one was something that Lucius had never seen. He blamed the sibyl. Her mad ravings had whipped this washed-up western woman into something she never really was.

He was of the mind that the sooner the sibyl sacrificed her, the better. Nothing good could come of her.

After a time of slow washing, Polyhymnia spoke. "Used to be a gentleman I knew in Carson,” she said. “Rich. Powerful. All yes-sir, no-sir, great idea sir. “

Lucius sighed. How was it that men would pay for the privilege of hearing her voice? Perhaps that was why she was cast aside.

“He never had to lift or touch a thing he didn't want to. Men scurrying up to get the door for him, to grab a chair for him, I even saw a fella throw his coat over cattle clods so the big man didn't have to step on it. That coat cost more than your life."

"Does this story of yours have a point?"

The Muse leaned back in the metal cattle trough. "Oh. Well sure, kid. Kill Lanius and go home to Arizona."

Lucius rounded on her. "You would dare to say such a thing aloud!"

"We're all thinking it," she replied. Their eyes met and he frowned, measuring in his mind how the dominus would react to a bruise on the woman's face. Almost half her face was ruined anyhow. No. That was what she wanted him to do. Fox cautioned him that the best course was to ignore her barbed comments. Gods be good, but Lucius did not know how Fox endured it. She would always talk down to him cutely, as though he were a little boy, oh you creepy little boy, what have you done this time, and he would smile thinly and remark what large hands she had.

The Muse smirked. Black hair fell in thick wet tendrils down over her breasts. That horrible dead white eyeball stared into space, the drooping lid weak and graying.

"Back to my story," she said. "It's good for you to listen. You might have waited on one powerful man all your life.. but I'm near old as you, Luke, and I've waited on plenty."

Lucius let out his breath in a tiny escaping hiss. Sextus. He wanted to thrash the boy about the ears a second time. If only he weren't so naive and taken in, he would have been better suited for such a menial task. None of the women could be trusted with Polyhymnia, perhaps only Siri, whom the Muse despised—for no good reason. Only poor faithful Siri of the women had tried so hard to save her life.

He would never understand their ways.

"So the gentleman in my story, he wasn't a good man, wasn't a bad one, it was New Carson and he ran the business all right. A tight leash on all the madness. You mess with him, his people, his ops, you were gone.. but if you tipped your hat, made your respects, didn't cause any trouble, el jefe and the boys wouldn't cause you any trouble."

The praetorian grumped, "This is of course meant as a parallel for the dominus."

"You're killin' me, Luke."

"If only."

"So the years go by and his second-hand man comes to him and says, 'Boss, we're coming up short, I think somebody's stealing money'."

"And it was you."

Esperanza huffed, "Would you let me finish," in a tone that to him sounded defensive. "So, we'll call him the treasurer, right, so the man is taken out and shot, and the boss puts somebody he trusts in charge of the dough. His son."

"What does that have to do with bread?" Truly that bullet wound must have scrambled her brain. Siri said the pieces bounced off the side and came out somewhere near the neck, a true lucky shot, but Lucius had doubts.

"Dough is money, ya dumbfuck."

"I thought you-- you used paper money. Hhhn." Why did he bother.

"Long story short, the boss keeps losing money, even more now, and the right hand man comes to tell him that the son is stealing from him. The boss refuses to believe it. His own son. So he has the right hand man killed for his lies. He's getting old by now, still livin' large, while all the young bucks in Carson City start sharpening their knives."

"They take over, the old man dies, the son leads them to their doom, and somehow.. you got away."

"More or less."

Lucius was unsurprised. "I think the significance of your story is that, yet again, everything around you falls to ruin. You truly are a cursed woman."

She rolled her eyes. The dead eye still moved weakly. "You think I want to be here?" she snapped.

"I don't want you here either, and on this we are agreed."

There came the shrill cry of a bird somewhere, a nightjar perhaps.

"You've never lived outside the Legion," she said, then, after a moment. "Or have you? Don’t you remember anything before they took you?"

He did not reply. It was useless to dwell on the weakness of the vault tribes, hiding away in the earth like soft white grubs.

Her voice softened. "You afraid to even talk to me?" she said, laying back in the metal cattle trough. Her large hands rested on a pulled-up knee. "We're just talking. Come on, Luke." 

He kept his eyes on her face. With her knee like that, he might see more of her than he would want to. Granted, he had seen her in all ways, in all states, as the dominus took her, but the way her rough voice softened now was entirely too personal for his comfort. "You have the tongue of a serpent," he muttered.

"What does that even mean?" She smiled lopsidedly. "Look, kid. I'm not lying to you. I can't help the boss with what he wants. We both know that. I don't know I'll have another baby.. " The smile vanished. Her voice thickened. She pushed on,".. and I don't think he'll ever be a daddy, I doubt it. He’ll fuck his way through all those virgins.. not one of them will come to anything. Not one of them ever has."

Lucius considered her. So she admitted she had no purpose here. He didn't know what she would do. What her angle would be. Some women in her situation had attempted to endear themselves to the dominus. He had a major of a town in Arizona as his concubine once, a woman that hated him, but needed him, who came to weep when cast aside once the novelty ran its course.

"I think we both know how fucked up everything is around here. You especially, kid.. you got front row tickets.”

"What is it that you want?" What did a woman like this really want? The dominus thought she wanted power. She may hate him, Caesar explained, but she needed him, and when it came to necessity and physical truth, the feelings of a woman counted for nothing. Women always had feelings and they changed on the hour.

Esperanza said, real soft, "I want to go home, kid."

"You think you'd ever be allowed to leave?"

"If I swore never to tell anybody anything what happened here,” she said in a husky whisper, “if I swore it on the Bible, on my mama's grave.. I wouldn't breathe a word. I'd just go home. If anybody asked me about it, I’d just cry, say I didn’t remember.. didn’t want to remember.”

Lucius frowned. This was not possible.

“Y’know, I think you've spent your whole life here,” she said, then, still soft, her dark eye on him. “You've waited on him. You had no life of your own. You could have been married. You could have had kids. Look at you.. The instant that knee goes.. you're done for. He'll have you killed for entertainment without a second thought. After all you’ve done for him.”

He said nothing right away—he did not need to explain himself to her, but when he hesitated, she said, “You know that.”

Then she leaned in to hang closer on the lip of the trough. She smiled so gently that he understood, for a moment, how Sextus could lose his bearing. “If I got free.. if you came with me.. I'd tell Colonel Hsu himself that you saved my life, that you never did me wrong.. that you never hurt anybody because you spent thirteen years waiting on Caesar like a slave. They’d understand that. I’d beg Hsu to understand.”

Lucius hesitated, and hated himself for that.

A sadness fell across her face, and she said, “He’d understand when I told him what it was really like here. All of you sacrificed on the altar of his ego. They say when he was in the Followers, women scorned and laughed at him, they say his attitude put off everybody. Now he’s got his revenge on them all. So much smarter and greater than everybody.. ‘cept he keeps you boys like slaves, his captive audience. Everybody a slave to his juvenile fantasy. You fight and die for him, for his ego, for his prick, for his mere amusement. You’re all condemned to his never-grow-up little fantasy. All you poor, Lost Boys.. “

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was all Lucius snapped.

“I know, honey.. and that’s the sad part,” she said. “Maybe they'd kill you. Maybe not. But you'll die here anyway. How's that knee feelin, kid?”

The other praetorians could challenge him at any time they chose. He would still win, he thought, but it would be a struggle. His knee still ached from the Battle of Pueblo. His weak knee. The others deferred to him out of respect, but if it came to challenger full of hatred.. if it came to a fight with an enemy..

He tried to shake it off. That she could speak such treason! That she could speak such treason openly! Yet there was a horrifying fascination in what she said, a horrifying cold wave of sensation like some deep terrible part of himself was teased with satisfaction.

No. It was a test. Some of the praetorians wondered if this woman was a trial in and of herself, sent by the gods. That she would be of the Bear, but not quite, some cast-off, some cursed woman always walking in the desert, a woman with a voice from beyond.

“We could go now, Luke,” she whispered. “He’ll be busy with his virgins. No one would suspect you. We could go now.. just walk away.. and I’ll save your life if you save mine. A year from now you could be in the vinyards of California, working the earth, with a wife and a baby on the way. All you need to do is take my hand.” 

He would think of that later, the dark wet hair falling over her breasts, her face upturned, that hand reaching out to him from the bath.

“I could never leave our people,” Lucius told her, “and I could never leave the dominus. This is my destiny, no matter what you say. I am wise enough to let you have your words now.. but if you speak again what you have just told me.. I will choke the lying breath out of you.”

She continued to stare at him with those eyes, as though she judged him. She sank back in the trough and sighed, “He's making mistakes. Bad ones. He'll turn more and more to the people who tell him what he wants to hear. I've seen it happen every time. He’s one of many. He’s not unique.”

“He makes no mistakes. It is all planned, and it is the will of Mars.”

He knew he was right to decline her, watching her make a male masturbatory gesture now in response to what he said.

“Junior's trying to help and he won't listen,” she told him, then. “If you don't do anything, Luke, it's only a matter of time before he throws your buddy to the Centaurs like a chew toy. Then they’ll go after his kids, because that’s how they are.”

Seeing that he had nothing to say to that, she became emboldened once again. "Lanius is going to destroy your people. You keep harping on about strength and civilization, but Lanius and his boys are just the face of the fucking horde. When he's king, they'll pour across the dam all right.. but once they cross that line, they won't be anything you recognize. Hell. You'll be dead by then. ”

"And what do you propose I do, woman?"

"Junior's gonna snap. I just know it. Women feel these things, and when you had him there in front of the boss getting put down, I felt it. He’s had enough. He’s too smart for this, kid, and he’s been micro-managed and bitched on long enough. He's gonna go be a hero for his country… and you’ve got to help him do it. Say it was the will of the gods.”

There were some who said she was a powerful witch, that she drank souls from the hearts of her dead husbands, a black widow, and Lucius felt a thrill of something terrible when she leaned in and smiled. “Or you really want to do a good number.. you get that Dog century coming back and when they march up here, all a hundred of 'em, everybody's sad and dramatic as hell, you take that skull from them and you hold it high. You shout out to everybody the skull told you Lanius had him killed. It was his order. I'm sure it'll all sort itself out right quick."

A cold shiver flickered up the praetorian’s spine. He looked out away at the bright flames of the cask fires. What she said.. she wasn’t right, yet.. she wasn’t wrong. Lucius said carefully, "There isn't a hundred of them. They've taken heavy casualties in the Utah."

"Hmm is that what they're saying, yeah about that.. funny how every report we get is different. You think I just stand around with my tits hangin out, that I don’t pay attention? What's-his-name Horace, his letters sure are gettin' weird, don't you think?" 

Lucius bit his lip. He too had stood around while the reports were read, and there was something off, something he could not put his finger on. "What are you implying, then, woman?"

"I think maybe they're seeing which way the wind blows. I think maybe something happened out there. Maybe they're trying to figure out if it's even worth it to bust their balls in the desert to come back here to this. Or maybe they found out the truth of what you did to their captain."

Her quick smile cut into him, then. He wanted to say, I had nothing to do with that, but he was on dangerous ground and knew he shouldn’t step any further.

“If you won't leave, then you can still save your people. It's useless for him to try for a baby. You don't need a damn baby. You need a leader. You need a leader to take your people back to your own lands, back to your own civilization. Forget the dam, that was his fantasy. You don’t need a revenge fantasy.. you need a new king, wise and prudent. Stubborn and serious, but committed. Is that you, Luke? Is that going to be you? Do you want to be the boy who finally grew up?”

His hand cracked across her face before he could stop it. She startled and there was a splash, but once the shock of surprise subsided, she looked up and they regarded each other levelly for a moment. “I should kill you here,” he growled. “You are nothing but trouble.”

"Then kill me,” Esperanza whispered, and her fingertips brushed over the ugly scarring above her dead eye. “I've stayed too long in this purgatory. You too, Luke.. you too.”


	15. Chapter 15

When the Muse told him she slipped in the bath, the dominus took a second look at her eye and laughed. Ignatius lead her by hand into their lord’s private quarters, where shaved-headed slaves stripped the bedding for replacement. A smack from the praetorian made them faster.

The dominus appeared in good spirits. He had clearly enjoyed his gift of the Roses Vista virgins, and it appeared that in his rare and beneficent mood, he had allowed his trusted guards to partake in the tribute also. Lucius was too unnerved to be disappointed. Even in the mild heat and the routine walk back to the crest encampment, the head praetorian had worked up a cold sweat of apprehension.

“She’s trying to make me jealous,” Caesar remarked, a broad smile on his face. “It’s a game that they all play.”

“My.. milord?”

“She threw herself at you when you were alone, you and her, in the baths.” Their lord looked into his eyes. “Didn’t she. And you hit her.”

“No, domine! I, ah, yes—“

“Then did you fuck her?”

“No. No, my lord. No, she didn’t.. but yes I hit her. That is what I mean to say. I struck her because she.. she spoke insultingly.”

Their lord narrowed his eyes, as if he were judging it to be true. “No? She did not attempt to strike back at me, me, serviced on my throne by the virgins of.. whatever fuckall tribe that was.”

“The Roses Vista people, my lord,” Herennius piped up. He was combing his thick stripe of hair back into its rigid Mohawk.  
“That will be all, Herennius,” Lucius said, clipped. He was as irritated by the interruption as by the grooming of person and uniform while in the presence of their lord. It was not seemly for a man of their station. “My lord, she did not make an advance on me or anyone else,” he replied, as much to alleviate the suspicion on young Sextus as anything. “She is yours.. but I fear her heart belongs to the Bear.” No use skirting about it. “She spoke treason, milord. That is why I struck her. Treason. We are best rid of her—I will put her down myself. You need but say.”

“Hmmmm.. and what did she say this time?”

“She told me that the legatus will destroy our people once you.. once your spirit has left your mortal body, my lord. Once he comes into power. She says he is nothing more than a tribal raider.”

Caesar smiled. “She tried to plot with you. She wanted you to help her kill me.”

Lucius knelt. “No, my lord.. and had she breathed such poisonous words, I would have slain her then and there.”

“No you wouldn’t.” Caesar snorted. “You would ask me first. Like now. Let me make this clear.. you will not harm her until I’ve finished with her. Now what else. What else did she say about me?”

Lucius hesitated. He grasped for a way to word it.

“Well? What else did she say? Or are you keeping her secrets? Hm?”

“She said.. she said she doesn’t think she’ll get pregnant.. she—she is older, my lord. She has had a miscarriage—that much is known—“

“Oh, she’ll be pregnant.”

“Milord—she said that.. she doesn’t think you will father a child on her. She says it is useless to try because Lanius will not respect the authority of an infant. Or of anyone. That I should step in to protect our people.”

Caesar smiled then, almost warmly. Lucius felt a bead of moisture drip down his neck. “.. you?” he said and smirked. “Oh, get up from there. You’re not to touch her. I know she is a treasonous bitch.. I allow it because it amuses me.. and because she has no power. She’s actually intelligent, for a woman, but she falls into the same traps they always do. Trying to be independent, failing miserably. I’ll have her killed when the child is weaned. That will be all, Lucius.”

“My lord.. “

“Oh. One thing before you are released. If you see Alerio, tell him to have them ready tomorrow. And the doctor woman.”

Alerio? Since when..

“Alerio, my lord?”

“He’ll know what I’m talking about. Go.”

...

It was two nights before Brumalia came to a close, when the barrier between the worlds thinned and thinned until it nothing stood between them. It was the longest night, the night of Thunder Jaguar.

The best of the centuries were chosen to represent the gods and heroes, and so they did, young men with burnished bodies gleaming with oil and paint. They were done up with feathers and beads and intricate armored pieces of beaten metal.

The herald of the gods was first to appear, and it was a great honor for a young man to be picked for Mercurius. He wore a coyote’s skin and had in his hand a scroll, which he dipped into the flames. He capered and danced around the crowd, whipping up their spirits, laughing and playing. He grabbed a priestess on the buttocks and danced away. Men cheered.

It was customary that the avatar of Mercurius bring the scroll to Great Caesar where it would be read out: a great invocation of his deeds, his rightness among the gods, and so forth. But Caesar was feeling poorly and Lucius stood in for him.

The story had circulated widely since then, but there were still those among the crowd who had personally witnessed it. Marcus had once been chosen for Mercurius, and he had been a sight, handsome, heroic, decked out in a coyote’s skin and feathered sandals.

Marcus-Mercurius had been drinking shots with Camurius two hours before the performance, and once the tequila set in, he was once more the life of the party. He jumped up on the banquet table, staggering over lamb and olives and tortillas, upbeat and laughing in a wild spectacle where he performed shocking native dance, gleefully accosted Iunius’chubby wife, vomited in the legate’s helmet, and blackedout at the head of the table with the scroll of fortune rolling out of his hand. Thard table corner took a chip out of the centurion’s front tooth, thereby immortalizing the man’s performance as the trickster god.

The silence had been deafening, or at least for those at the table of honor in the commander’s tent, for the cyborg dog was barking and capering around just outside, excited and wagging. Graham had watched the entire business with a lifted eyebrow. He did not even budge the woman from his lap, merely looked over to the dominus and remarked, _well, Ed, sometimes the messenger is the message, and by the looks of it.. it’s going to be a hell of a year._

He had Marco whipped, of course. He was always having Marco whipped—it always seemed like you had to punish that man.

Aebutius of the mesa people was chosen for the smith-god Vulcan, with his huge arms, burned skin, broad shoulders. He wore a headdress of a canyon yao guai. In his booming voice he called out that He had come to aid brother Mars in his conquest, that he had come down to earth again to forge the People into a weapon.

Sicinius represented the god Apollo, who held a mighty temple in Sedona. Tendrils of gold streamed off his mask, glowing in the firelight. His golden mane. Singer, healer, prophet, god of civilization and its destruction.

Lucius did not recognize the youth who was chosen for Thunder Jaguar, known also as Bromios or Dionysos. He was traditionally the patron of Brumalia, though the other pagan cults blended in with the festival of the winter solstice. He was the god of hunting cats, secrets, ecstacy, good humor—his mortal avatar was painted with great spots and he wore a skin of a Mexican panther with six legs of varying sizes. He wielded a staff whose blunt end was carved like a pine cone, and if he struck you with it, it was supposed to portend good luck for the year.

Lucius had too much on his mind for fun and games. He forced a smile here and there, but the ceremony stank of the sibyl’s meddling. She had her priestesses and her creatures everywhere, though the Legate and his men were not officially in attendance, somewhere off in their encampment. Who knew what kind of horror they were enjoying in their own monstrous party.

The reading of the scroll was particularly obnoxious, the herald of the gods singing out the praises of great Caesar, the son of Mars, his deeds, his accomplishments, and what the year was to bring the legion. There was talk of a great bull bleeding from the neck, black ghosts, a fiery dragon loosed from the underworld, a dying bear, and a mighty span of horns under whose shadow the Legion could not be defeated… it was impossible not to see how she preached of Lanius and his rise to power. The mighty span of horns, his horned helmet. The wounded bull… the wounded bull..

Lucius slept little that night. He felt as though a block of stone weighed on his chest, like one of the chipped marble slabs off the Flagstaff Courthouse. The words of that vile woman lingered in his heart, and they pained him like the poison of a serpent long after its bite.

It wasn’t that she was right.. it was more that..

It was more that she was only somewhat experienced in the manner of these things. That was why it was important not to be taken in. There were only a few base similarities in circumstances… her world and theirs were entirely different, after all, and it would be fatal to trust her with anything.

Yet. Yet she was correct on the matter of the Legate. Lanius was a problem. He had always been a problem. Vile, rude, disgusting. His men lacked discipline. In the beginning, when Great Caesar rallied the tribes to his banner, he needed numbers, he needed fighters. He took warriors from the wild tribes, the barbarians, the slavers, the raiders, the flesh-eaters. Now that their numbers swelled and their territory stretched as far as you could see… Great Caesar in his twilight needed soldiers, men of discipline and purpose, not warriors. Not great hordes of them, still wild, still eating flesh, stooped around their grisly cookfires.. oh, Lucius knew well what was said of the Legate’s camp, what horrors were to be seen there.

Lucius rose at his usual hour and made himself ready, but the dominus still slept and the other praetorians were well on hand.

He embarked on the journey he did not wish to make.

...

In better times, their lord had liked to walk the trails and washes along the hills that neighbored the Fort. Lucius and his praetorians would accompany the dominus on his hunts and excursions. The great rocks here were banded in layers of color, and creosote grew with spicy-smelling mesquite.

His knee ached by the time he reached the fissure. He hated coming to a place where his strength meant nothing.

Lucius called out, "I am outside, Fox, and I’ve come alone.” After a beat, he added, “I’m not going in there.”

There came no reply.

Annoyed, he ordered Fox to come out.

There was only a mid-morning silence. Oh, Juno’s tits.

Lucius stood for a moment, hands on his hips, casting a look about the valley. No one had followed. This place was here if you had come to look for it. Some had attempted to gain entry. No one survived who was not invited. The sisters made sure of that.

With a deep sigh, Lucius limped to the cluster of cacti that covered the key to surviving the caverns. It took only a few moments of digging to find it, that little terracotta pot he could cover with both hands. Doe-deer formed the handles on either side. The pot contained a translucent butter of sorts, congealed thickly in the heat.

He sniffed it. There was a faint scent of whatever herb Fox had used to prepare the substance. The important component could not be detected by the human nose.

Lucius scooped two fingers into the pot and smeared his forehead, cheeks, and arm. He dipped his opposite fingers and painted the other side. Then he replaced the lid, covered the pot again with its little rag of coyote skin, and buried it once more. He rose.

The coolness of shadow fell over him as he stepped into the cavern. There came a vague memory of life in the vault, where a weak tribe of jump-suited figures huddled together frightened as rabbits. Then his sandal crunched bone and the moment was lost.

Human bones, animal bones, even shell plates of hollowed-out exoskeleton, the cavern was littered with the remains of prey. There was no smell other than the faint sweet odor associated with the animals. The sisters had picked their suppers clean and they used almost every part.

Lucius hoped that the ointment would hold up. It always did—but he feared he might sweat it away.

Fox had at some point painted tribal markings throughout the corridor. Lucius saw the press of white clay handprints into the wall. Fox's very long hands. Lucius did not know the meaning of the signs, some tribal holdover from Fox’s wild origins.

Lucius never liked coming here. The wasps had never harmed any invited guest, so long as they used the ointment that smelled of wasp pheromones, but Lucius detested the insects and whatever weird kinship that Fox held with them.

Paper piping adorned the walls here now, and Lucius disliked how close the corners went in this bend of the cavern. He could never tell until the last moment if the tubes were empty or occupied. The sound was coming to him now and he knew he was close.

The corridor opened into the central cavern now, with light streaming down through natural openings. The clusters of paper pipes were more intense, and the cazadores clung to the walls, some of them climbing slowly, some fanning their wings. Some buzzed, and the deep low hum filled the chamber.

Fox explained once that throughout the day they would move about the cavern, depending on the light and heat and humidity, as to what they needed and desired for comfort.

Fox was very strange yet earnest, in his peculiar way. He had a weird affection for the creatures and had raised many of this brood by hand, a true animal friend.

The cavern had been Fox’s lair for some time and it was strewn with his personal effects, as well as those things that made it a meeting-place for the others of his order.

On a raised bank of stone, Fox made his nest of straw and dry alfalfa with a banded Mexican blanket and an animal hide. From the size and light stripe along the side, Lucius took it to be a pronghorn. Some of Siri’s things were here as well, faded womens sundresses, several books on anatomy and physiology. Her journal. Lucius supposed that he allowed her certain privileges once they were alone and away from others. He did not know what they really did on their travels in Arizona. Gathering herbs, Fox said.

He saw the usual collection of natural curiosities: pronghorn antlers, several snake skeletons. Shield-sized plates of chitin taken from giant ants. Bunches of dried herbs. A good section of shed skin from a deathclaw.

An assortment of weaponry for practice, bladed weapons, spear weapons, and a smattering of firearms. More than a few loaded magazines sitting neatly in rows. A pair of mens dress shoes.

He took in the tiny shrine to Fox's personal gods and totems. Among the figures of Mars, Apollo, and Owl, he recognized the female shape of the goddess Diana, the slim, small-breasted woman figure with the head of a wolf or other hunting canine. Beeswax candles and a small terracotta dish of dried flower petals and citrus rinds. A mouse skeleton, perfectly intact. Glossy feathers. The snaky form of a merganser hanging by its feet.

Vulpes and Gabban stood in respect once Lucius entered. Siri was here also, knelt with her hands on her thighs.

"Didn't you hear me call out?" Lucius grumped.

Fox made an elegant gesture with one hand. "Not over the buzzing, no," he demurred. His lips twitched in a quick smile. "Please join me. The meal is almost ready." He laid a hand on Siri’s shoulder and she regained her feet. Gabban stood by, mouth pressed thin.

Lucius was annoyed. With the chamber humming with cazadores, how could he sit down to eat? He glanced around the cavern, preferring to know where the closest of the insects were located. More than a pounce length away, a smaller, thinner wasp was running its forelegs over its antennae. It did not yet seem interested in him.

Vulpes continued to stand and wait. He was dressed in a simple tunica of soapberry red. Sandals. He always appeared clean and poised. Siri was in sandals and a simple dress of gray fabric. She did not meet his questing eyes and glanced away as she went about her business. There were two birds spitted and cooking; from the gleaming feathers, Lucius took them to be teals of some kind, ducks that gathered this time of year on the banks of the Mead.

Gabban must have been in the process of arriving himself, or in leaving, for he was kitted out in the light scout leather of a frumentarius. The boy’s eyes looked puffy, like Sextus’ did after he had been yelled at.

Lucius stared at Fox level for a moment, and then he crossed to the small low table that Fox, Gabban, and Purpureo rolled in there one day. It had only three legs, propped up with a chunk of sandstone about the right size.

Siri served them duck with sun-dried tomatoes, rice, a sauce from ant nectar and warm tortillas with prickly pear on the side. She gave Lucius his plate first, some red earthenware, and when she served Fox, he ran a hand over her wrist almost reassuringly. She and Gabban withdrew from the central chamber and while the young frumentarius went with a plate of his own, Siri walked head down with her hand over her mouth.

Once they were left alone, Lucius asked, "Where were you last night?"

"In religious observance." Lucius could well believe that Fox went off here in _meditatio_ , but there was a cold unease in his chest—the one he experienced well before he even came here to this wasp-infested lair. “Was I not dismissed by our lord?”

He waited for Lucius to take a first moody bite before he began to eat.

“You’ve been in trouble before, you know that,” he said, straight to the point. “You’ve made him angry, you’ve fallen out of favor for the moment.. but you’re good at what you do, and no matter how furious he becomes.. he remembers that. We all know it.”

Fox gave an elegant shrug. “It is not for me to comment.”

“Why don’t you just lay low for a couple of days. Here. Hells.. you could take a jaunt out in the Kaibab forest for all I care.” Lucius thought of Alerio cozying up to the dominus while Fox was gone.. how irritating.

“Too much work to be done, Lucius.” Fox assumed only a passing interest in this topic. Humoring him. “In any case, it is Brumalia.. the barrier is thinning between this world and the one beyond. It is a rare time.”

Lucius did not know why that would make it any different, or what that meant precisely. In his mind, religious notions were best taken lightly and for some sort of community order. Their lord was wise to bring the worship of tribal totems and spirits into the great culture of the legion. Fox ought to really know better by now, but perhaps that holdover from his tribal past was too strong to overcome.  
In conversation, Fox would look you in the eye and give you every notion that he paid attention to every word that left your mouth. Now he seemed distant, picky with his meal, otherwise polite.

Fox smiled, then, a wan smile. “Let us speak of other things,” he said. “The Burned Man is dead. Perhaps.”

Lucius could not share in that smile. “I won’t believe it until I see the body.”

“So long as it is only words on paper, for the time being, I also express my reservations. Once or if the body winds up here, we should make a great public display of it, then send it on to Flagstaff. It is not enough to kill him, but his legend must die also.”

Their eyes met, but it was Lucius who looked away, thinking other things. “It was He Walks Away Alone who wrote to you?”

“Indeed. The same handwriting.”

“And do you trust him?”

The frumentarius laughed. “It depends what with. I detest his attitude, to be quite frank. Always sighing and pouting, dragging his feet. Very lazy, only truly interested in his own little projects. Still, he’s extremely sharp.. and the most experienced of our brothers and sisters who yet remain. He could have had my position, or Silva’s, if he had even the smallest flicker of motivation.” Fox added, then: “But do not make him the leader of this cell. That would be a great error.”

“Do you trust him with his mission into Zion? Do you.. do you think he would defect?”

“No, he hated Graham. And he does hate a hypocrite. You are fortunate, brother Lucius, that you never had to hear any of his tirades. That deep ranting voice.. I can hear it now, almost.” The faintest smile played over Fox’s lips, but his eyes were hard. “I was losing too many frumentarii. So I sent him and a partner. I was a better choice for the mission. I should have been the only one—I would have finished the job first and clean.”

“We needed you here. You know that.”

“I know the desert. I speak the languages of the major tribes in the region. I can still pass for a Dead Horse, and for a Mormon, if need be. I can sneak past an enemy’s defenses and strike at their leader. I could have crept in, killed him, beheaded him, performed the rituals so his spirit would not reanimate.. and bring you both head and body for display throughout the camp. This could have been years ago.”

Lucius repeated, “We needed you here,” and he felt a flush of momentary anger. The words felt lame.

“It’s a shame I wasn’t trusted with the Utah. I see now that our lord feared I might get into mischief if I chanced upon the Dogs at their own mission.”

The praetorian heaved a sigh and pushed his plate away.

“So that’s it, isn’t it. A shame no one spoke to me of these things. In our Order I insist that we speak freely.. no words are punished that are spoken among brothers and sisters.” Fox popped a morsel in his mouth. He always ate so tidily. “I could have told you long ago that I always suspected Marco’s death was an execution, not an accident. No need to fear how I would react.”

Lucius felt the same, but he would not speak against his lord’s judgment. “What’s done is done,” he said. “We needed you here.”

Damn if he would squirm under the stare of a man so young, a man he could probably smite with one good strike to the head. The blue eyes fixed him in silence.

Fox did not touch his plate again, simply brushing the last crumbs from his fingertips. He let the silence linger. Only the intermittent buzz of wasp wings sounded in the cavern. Even though they were dipped in cool shadow from the cavern, even if the table was not within the rays of light from the natural openings, Lucius felt heat and sweat dripped miserably down his shoulderblades.

“What did they do to him?” asked Fox at long last. “What did they do that makes it so hard to find his body?”

“The dominus gave orders to make it look like he died in battle,” Lucius replied. “Those two were only supposed to guide the events, observe, confirm, and report back to us. Caesar wanted it to look like the natives killed him.. and he wanted the Hell Hounds to wipe out their tribe.”

“But it didn’t tie up so neatly, now did it.”

“Gnaius and Ludo painted themselves up like Pit Vipers, the male warriors beholden to the tribe. They set an ambush at night. Marco was taken alive. The witchwomen drugged and tortured him.” Here Lucius paused, and he grumbled, “Damn the two of them for letting the savages have their fun. He was still a centurion.”

“Then what.”

“Their witch decreed that Marco’s fate was not hers to choose. She said to let the gods decide.”

“Oh,” said Fox, flatly. “He hated snakes.”

“How did you know about the snakes? Did Silva.. no, she didn’t tell you anything?”

“That was their way, their tribal rites. The serpent pit. They consider it holy.”

Lucius sighed. “Well, none bit him.”

“No?”

“No. Not one. Gnaius and Ludo said he came out of the pit unscathed. Still drugged, but unbitten.”

Something passed over the cold blue eyes and Fox nodded, almost half to himself. “That makes sense,” he replied. “The serpent is sacred to the gods, and to Trickster and Apollo especially. Marco was beloved of Apollo.”

“The natives let him walk away. They said it was out of their hands. There was some anger in the camp at his release.. but you know how superstitious they are.” The word was out of his mouth before he could catch himself—for was not Fox so superstitious also? But the frumentarius did not seem to take offense; his entire concentration was focused upon Lucius and he was impatient for the praetorian to continue.

“Gnaius and Ludo should have killed him quickly when they had him in the desert. Hells.. he might have died of thirst on his own, or of the drug. Instead.. they disobeyed our lord and decided to mete out their own punishment.”

“So they crucified him.”

“Dominus never wanted that.”

Fox smiled a very thin tight smile, which at first looked out of place to Lucius—though it looked familiar to him, shades of his desperate humor when he pleaded for Siri to kill him after all the Searchlight radiation. A very grim intense smile. “They must have enjoyed that,” he remarked. “The mighty centurion. The pervert.”

Lucius recalled all too easily the giggle-fits and bright smiles of those horrid frumentarii. Gnaius looked fit to burst with laughter, like he enjoyed a secret and could barely stand it. Ludo looking so prideful, so correct, so perfect in his place in the universe. They didn’t even have time to understand when Silva shot them. “It was not what Caesar wanted.”

“So he died drugged and stupid, tortured, in agony, with the notion that it was our lord’s command.”

“No, that wasn’t what he wanted! Dominus bade Silva execute them on the spot. He was outraged that his orders were disobeyed.”

Fox leaned his elbows on the table, his mouth against a fist. “Would he have been, though, if Decimus did not have the strength of a cohort at his command? And he was popular.. “

“Of course there were concerns.. we didn’t want civil war. Of course if they knew the truth about Marcus—“

“Many knew, many know still. Did not the god Apollo take mortal lovers? I find I no longer care of that peculiarity.. when there are monsters to be found in the Minotaurs, in the Centaurs, and what they do to their captives..”

“Now, you come off it. He could have died like Vedius, stripped of all his crest and armor, forced to carry his cross through the encampment.. “ Lucius had not seen the value in why the executioner chose to pound a giant stake into the man until he was dead, which horrifically took much longer than you’d think. “Dominus could have had him killed anytime, anywhere. It was supposed to be a mark of honor. It all went terribly when Gnaius and Ludo presumed to enact their own justice. Many of the centuria were lost in that whole debacle.”

“And now the Hounds have combed through the desert looking for bits and scraps the scavengers left. They do love a crucifixion. Gnaius and Ludo are fortunate that our enemies love to nail us to the cross when they catch us.. a bit of tit for tat.”

Lucius sighed. “They say they found his bones, but I don’t know I believe them. Hells, at this rate, I’ll be happy enough if they take any skull and smash its teeth in.”

Fox seemed to hone in on this admission. “It will be good to have them back, won’t it,” he murmured. “What did Graham have to say of all this?”

“He said that Marco had suffered enough and his transgressions could be forgiven.”

Fox shook his head. “How Mormon of him.”

“Well—now you know. I’m sorry it was kept from you.. “ A pause. “Looking back, you should have been told a lot of things. You can’t work with information you don’t have. But of course.. you understand why we have to keep things from one another.”

“I understand,” Fox replied softly. “And I am sorry also, brother.”

A silence fell between them. Fox looked off and away, brows drawn low. Of course he still possessed a great loyalty to the man’s memory and perhaps he still felt guilt for that whole incident with the wife. A baseless guilt to feel—Marco knew he was doing wrong. Had every chance to turn his life around. And there were plenty of women available to a man of Fox’s rank—had he not fathered three children by now? It was true the female was a sickly one but the other two would grow to be fast and clever.

After awhile, Fox said, almost off-handedly, “Don’t worry, that one is a boy.”

For a good moment, Lucius, in all his roiling thoughts, did not understand what Fox meant by that. Then he saw that a cazador now perched on the table near his elbow. He froze. It was easily the length of his arm, blue-black of carapace, with those gleaming fire orange wings.

“If this stings me.. “ he threatened, but his voice sounded a touch higher than the growl he intended.

“Impossible—the males cannot sting. They eat nectar.”

Lucius was truly in no mood for this. He half-considered swatting the giant thing away, but what if that alarmed the others? The wasp lightly tapped his wrist and hand with its antennae, like someone drumming their fingertips. “Come take this thing away at once.”

Fox rose and reached to collect the giant tarantula hawk. He handled it like a lady picking up a pet cat, setting it on his shoulder, where it became to climb on him. “He probably saw your armor and became curious. They can be very inquisitive.”

The praetorian’s predicament seemed to lift Fox a little from his mood. He even gave a thin, weary little smile. Perhaps there was some relief from knowing, or perhaps he had always secretly guessed.

Moving on, Fox began to speak again. “Anyhow, brother.. you should know that Cato will take over the matter of Orion Moreno. It is important that we allow Moreno to take the fall for whatever happens to Aaron Kimble. “

Lucius felt his power of concentration intensify the further the giant wasp was taken away from him. “You’re certain Moreno can succeed alone?”

“Absolutely. The power of the Enclave was rightly feared. We will let him have his moment in the sun. Of course we will always be suspected, but General Oliver is a coward, and Kimble’s replacement is weak-willed and easily confused.”

The praetorian nodded. “When will Picus return to us? Wasn’t he to report to us in person?”

“The last I heard, he was detained by some last minute business and can’t take holiday leave. He wanted to discuss it in person, something about a report drafted by Major Knight. It may even go as high as the general.”

Holiday leave. So strange a concept.

“Remind me the significance of this Major Knight.”

“The transfer of Major Knight from the outpost to main headquarters is a somewhat problematic reassignment. The good major has a sharp logistical ability and he has wasted no time in a complete account of supplies and personnel. He has apparently drawn up some deeply troubling report that incriminates everyone’s favorite courier.”

“The drunken redhead who fucked the robot in front of everyone?”

“What? No.. you’re thinking of the caravan woman, not the courier. The rascally old man. They work together. Although if that is the sort of rumor that is circulating here, I can easily see why she would be the camp favorite.” Fox shook his head. “You heard that from Alerio, didn’t you.. I thought I sent him back with something substantial to report. His priorities.. Anyhow, Major Knight despises the man for some reason, and he seems to think there is some grievous wrongdoing. He wishes to bring Mister Chris in for questioning.”

“I thought the courier helped them with those bounties.”

“He did, and he has a former First Recon man for a hired muscle.” The way Fox said First Recon man recalled to Lucius the way Caesar spoke when a headache was coming on. “However he does as much to aid the NCR as to antagonize them. They’ve been very unhappy with his killings of the Silver Rush and Crimson Caravan personnel. The Van Graffs and Crimson Caravan hold great power in California, and the NCR frowns upon public killings—I don’t see why, they’re rather effective. Anyhow, Picus is attempting to get a prior look at the report so that he can act first if he has to. None of us is very certain about the courier, just where his loyalties lie. He’s playing his cards very close, and understandably, with the Chairmen after him. And now the van Graff family. If he is working for Robert House it remains to be seen how or if his employer will aid him.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“I don’t know. None of us know yet what Major Knight discovered. Picus seems to think the issue is that of theft of NCR property— perhaps likely.. if the courier was stealing from the NCR, he would have the means to move it, with the caravan company he now has part in. No matter what happens, I think he has survived this long and he will make a prudent choice. In all likelihood I half expect him to take his money and disappear on a caravan out of the Mojave with his adventurous redheaded lady-friend. We will see. But I would not trust him, not even to make trouble. All we will have is trouble.”

For a moment, Lucius’ thoughts wandered—Caesar laughing over the latest exploits, laughing at the NCR for being played. Their lord was considering making an offer to the man to play at interference. All that Arizona gold was a powerful temptation to a raggedy man down on his luck..

“When will Picus return to us.. permanently?” Lucius had no illusions of the captain’s position— once joining the order, no frumentarius ever lived very long. Picus performed a unique yet perilous role. He would most likely be killed.. or expected to take his life. Chances were high that Caesar would not trust him on his return.

“I would like him to remain a time after Kimble’s death,” Fox replied, as the cazador pivoted and began to test its forelegs in the air. “I wish to know what is being said around the NCR staff.”

“What were we discussing before? He’ll blow up the monorail.. and kill the colonel?” Perhaps if Picus killed Hsu, the dominus would be more in favor of allowing him to live.

Now the cazador was climbing on the front of Fox’s tunic again, pulling down the fabric for a brief glimpse of scar tissue. “No. There must be no killing of James Hsu. Not yet. If he dies, they will replace him with someone more of the general’s point of view. Colonel Hsu is worth more to us living than dead. The men look to him and Moore. He will preach restraint.”

Lucius hesitated to bring up the poisonous things that Polyhymnia had said. “What would you think if.. if we were to withdraw from our effort here. For a time. Return to Arizona and regroup. After Kimble was dead, of course.. after they were all left scrambling about, looking for the Enclave.”

Fox smiled. “Now you see it, my brother.” 

Lucius dropped any pretense of easing into the subject. “You can’t be serious. She’s been talking to you about it, hasn’t she. She approached you also!”

The cazador took Fox’s necklace in its mandibles, worrying the cord in wedge-shaped bites. The antennae moved almost thoughtfully. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Esperanza. Last night, when I was attending her, alone, she said I should march us all back to Arizona, and let her go. She said she’d promise not to tell them anything. That we’d just.. call it even.”

Fox gently prised the necklace out of the cazador’s mandibles and instead, tried to interest it in little pieces from his plate. It liked the prickly pear bits. “Ah.. and what did you tell her in response?”

“I told her that was treason. Which it is. I would never—“

“Ah. Well. Now she will never speak to you again about these things. It’s better to let them speak their minds.. then you will know. Now you will not.” Fox seemed so young, but his eyes had a weathering to them, an age, like antique glass beads. Lucius realized: he will never live to grow old.

“But.. well, what do you think?”

Fox’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I will tell you what happens after Kimball’s death. We declare victory.. and return to Flagstaff. We must look to our own people.. in our lord’s absence, the regional governors and commanders have squabbled too long among one another.”

“For true? You say retreat also,” Lucius said. “This from you, who destroyed Searchlight and allowed our crossing into the Mojave? Your entire work here has been to prepare for the invasion.”

“Dear brother, my entire work has been to serve our people to the best of my ability, in whatever way that I can. I have gone into the lands of the Dissolute and I have seen they are not worth taking.. not at this price.”

“What about the Dam.”

“It may be that we fight there, but we must not go further. To win the Mojave we would lose our people. It is something I have only lately come to understand. They drink and whore, living like the lotus-eaters.. so long as they live, they will always be weak and wanton. Perhaps they will die out once they have scavenged all they can from the dead world. Perhaps they will kill each other. Perhaps we will cross the river and bring them into order one day.. but we must save our people first.”

Then, after a moment of toying with the cazador, he added, “I wouldn’t normally commend Miss Esperanza for any of her life decisions or personal wisdom.. but I think she sees the right of it.”

“Will you stop playing with that damn thing?” Lucius couldn’t concentrate. There was a cold sweat tingling on his scalp. There were words he wanted to say, but they stuck in his throat. Lanius. The skull with the chipped tooth. A march home..

Fox eyed him a moment, then nodded. “Of course, brother.” He took his plate and walked the giant wasp over to the raised end of the cavern.

The praetorian’s scalp was itching him. The little prickles of sweat. He turned and rubbed his head against his hand, then stopped. He examined his fingers for traces of the ointment. What if it absorbed completely while he was in here? “Esperanza said she won’t have a baby. Never his.”

“Yes. Siri thinks so, as well—all his travels, too much radiation. Myself I haven’t fathered any other children after Searchlight.” With great care, Fox set down the dish and the giant animal along with it, giving it a little touch before he walked his way back. “It is no matter.. we must look upon our lord’s successor as one chosen by the gods and accepted by the people. A young man of good standing, brave deeds, intelligence, and no glaring character deficiencies. Our lord’s successor should not be a conqueror in their own right, but someone who will consolidate and reinvigorate the territories we already possess. It may be best to avoid a tribal background to avoid exciting any lingering rivalries.”

Lucius saw a blurry face before his mind’s eye even as Fox spoke. “Titus of Sedona,” he said.

The frumentarius held out his hand to one of the wasps on the wall. “Titus would have been perfect, yes.”

“I never believed you killed him.”

“It was wrong to exterminate all of the Burned Man’s children. It was only that one boy that tried for revenge. Most of them only learned their father’s identity when they were gathered together and executed. That was a grievous affront to the gods.”

Even years later, Lucius could still remember the children corralled together in the square, teenagers and younger, some crying, their mothers shrieking and wailing, begging mercy. The children began to hold hands… “Silva thought it was best. She advised it.”

Fox turned his palm up, allowing one of the cazadores to touch with its antennae. He seemed to lose interest in the conversation.

Lucius persisted: “Where is Titus now?”

“He is lost to us.”

“Where did you put him? Don’t lie to me.”

“He escaped from our lands. I don’t know where. His life was in danger.. of course he had to go. It is useless to pursue this. The chief lesson of the whole grisly episode is not to create enemies where there were none. Those children were innocent. The Burned Man never even properly claimed them. He didn’t care where his seed took root, you knew how he was with women.”

Lucius couldn’t let it drop, not like that. “Everyone liked young Titus—even.. even our lord. If the Burned Man is truly dead, and we see that he is dead, then there is no threat. He was an intelligent boy. He would have understood why it was necessary. If you tell me where he is.. I promise no harm will come to him. Where is he?”

“I’m not sure you will like the answer to your question.”

“Fox. You said you didn’t like us all keeping secrets from one another. Didn’t you say that?”

“Very well. Months ago a runner from Flagstaff brought me a curious letter carried south by a caravan. The letter was addressed personally to me, and in it, someone with an Old Testament name thanked me for saving his life and detailed his escape to a place that is not Utah, so before you ask, he is not to be found there and has had no contact with the other person we are concerned about. The person in the letter said that he realizes that the world is so much different than how he was raised to believe. He wrote that he has beheld the light of truth and realizes now the great evil of our existence. He begged me to bring Siri and escape.. that we would be welcomed in the light of the Lord, and in Jesus Christ all sins are forgiven.”

Lucius stared.

“I burned the letter without reply. I see the look on your face. Don’t worry, brother.. although Titus was innocent, I am not, and even our gods frown on some of the things I have done.”

“I don’t know what is worse, him dead, or alive, like that.”

“Oh, I suppose he is all right, in that weak and timid existence of the Lamb God followers.”

“I meant.. politically.”

“You have nothing to fear. He was only one of perhaps a hundred or more.”

“And you. If anyone heard of this. That he contacted you.”

Fox smiled, as though he didn’t care how dangerous it was to speak of this. “I am unconcerned. In truth, I find it a higher mark of character that I have had the opportunity to escape and never did. Good gods, Lucius. I could go any time I wanted. You would never find me. But I never did.. I never will. I stayed true, Lucius.”

“This is a lot to consider.”

“I know. It will all work out in the end, I promise you, brother.”

“Don’t come to the ceremony tonight. Just.. lay low. For several days. Why don’t you make a pilgrimage to the Kaibab Forest Shrine.. I’m certain there is someone there who would like to see you.”

For the life of him, Lucius could not remember the girl child’s name.

This seemed to mark a subtle shift in Fox’s mood and expression. “If anything should happen to me, Lucius.. please look after her. Don’t let her marry anyone cruel.”

“Fox, honestly.. “

“Don’t let them take revenge on her because of me. Don’t trust her with Tiberia. Promise me that, won’t you.”

Lucius sighed. “I promise. And you’re going to be fine. He’ll forget you’ve angered him in no time. Hells.. he forgets that Silva is dead.”

“But if anything did happen,” Fox recovered, as though this were any common business to discuss, “Horatius is to be leader of our chapter here. You will recall him, a quiet man of Cipher origins, with their sharp mind and strange tattoos. He is reserved yet sound in judgment. Very discreet. You were wise to trust him with the Utah mission. Do not trust Alerio. He lacks.. subtlety. I should have put more work into correcting his deficiencies, and that is my fault. Do not elevate He Walks Away Alone.. he would hate it, and while that would be amusing, he is a poor choice.”

“That would be difficult. If he truly did meet with success in Zion.. he would be made of gold in our lord’s eyes.”

“He will do whatever you ask, of course, but he has no heart for this.”

Lucius realized he shouldn’t encourage this negative line of thought, no matter his own apprehension, “Not that you need fear replacement.”

Fox smiled. “I fear nothing,” he purred.

“Look, Fox.” For a split second—no. No.

“Yes, brother?”

“Esperanza said something else.. “

“What was that?”

“She says.. she said she thinks you’re plotting something.”

“What, me, plotting anything. Brother if I must stay here.. I’ll be keeping Siri here, just so you know. The other women she has trained are more than capable of treating any excesses of merriment tonight.”

“Her presence was requested for the ceremony.” Lucius saw him narrow his eyes. She was his property, after all. “By the dominus, sorry.”

Fox did not respond right away. He looked as disappointed as Lucius had seen him in quite a while, a slack mouth, quickly blinking eyes. Young, so young.. “Surely he has others to attend him?”

“It might not take long.”

He sincerely hoped that the dominus wasn’t going to make her play doctor.. there really was no reason to do that, when he had so many other women.

“Ah, well.. of course, of course.. “ Fox seemed to sense the scrutiny and a quick smile leapt to his features. “It is probably for the best. I will send her by later. Thank you for the visit.”

“You know I hate coming here, Fox, you crazy bastard. I’ll send Gabban to fetch you in a couple days.. perhaps we can go hunting ducks on the Mead, what do you think?”

“That sounds lovely,” replied the frumentarius as he came closer to see him off. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of trouble. Gabban and the others have instructions.”

Lucius clasped his forearm. “I’ll celebrate your success by getting you a woman, what would say to one of those Roses Vista virgins?”

“Oh well what would they know?”

Lucius gave him a companionable grip.“That’s what the muse said, damn that vile woman.”

Fox’s smile faded. He squeezed tightly. “Goodbye, Lucius.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank you guys for coming along so far... I've really learned a lot about writing through this story, and your comments have been cherished. They've really helped me a lot to try and figure out if something came across the way I wanted to. If I was getting the right effect. You guys have been amazing. You're a very sharp audience and that is the best kind. I honestly take a lot of pleasure in trying to figure out a way to entertain you with my stories.
> 
> I try to write back to each and every one of your comments.. maybe that's tacky, but that's me! If I didn't say anything, I was probably trying to think of the perfect response and then it slipped through the cracks.


	16. Chapter 16

When word came that the Legion held Khan captives in the cove, brother Karl and the breathless messenger were the only two men sober enough to stand. The frumentarius didn't need to be told that his time among the encampment was at its end; he took off running and never looked back.

He had hated the Red Rock assignment. Their drunkenness, their drugs, their vomit and piss, their cramps and shits. The Great Khans pretended at being tribal as they pretended that they were great: the wise dominus told them how the Khans and the NCR emerged from the same vault in California, a vault populated by the most quarrelsome people. None could put their differences aside and work together as one, as had the Legion, all strong, all one, all mighty beneath the red banner and the strength of Great Caesar. The Californians were a petulant people.

Oh, Karl had heard their story how the first Khans crawled blinking into the sunlight, how the gods of the desert had waited so patiently for them to reclaim their destiny. Karl looked on them as a rude and rowdy bunch of thugs who retreated into needles and pills whenever the going got tough. As with every conflict, it seemed, the Khans played at being warriors and panicked at any resistance. Had they not captured a squad of NCR soldiers a few years ago? Had they not tortured and defiled the bodies? Then, when the anger of the Bear was turned upon them, did they not send women and children down the mountain into the cracking of rifles? Shameful! They should go back beneath their rock, they should go hide in their hole in the ground. They were not warriors-- they were not strong enough to take a stand in the wasteland.

Karl's mother had been a real tribal woman, an Iron Line, and he still held memories of their wisdom: the sacred geometry, the holiness of open country. Karl did not know his father but his first commander was of Cipher origins, a hard man, stoic and mysterious, who taught Karl to value the mind as well as the heart. It was his tutelage that shaped Karl throughout his career: as squad leader, as decanus, as frumentarius. The trials had tested every ounce of his strength and will. The Ritual tested his faith, tested it greatly, but in the end, Ludo accepted him into their ranks and bequeathed him the mantle of their office.

The warband caught him north of the crossroads. Lucky for them that he rolled an ankle in his escape from the canyon. They brought him up into the hills to Bitter Springs-- and throughout the staggering ascent, Karl looked below and prepared for the moment he would jump. He couldn't let them hand him over to the NCR.

But the Bear was nowhere to be seen. These were the nights of their solstice festival, and the western men knew better to be found here.

When the warriors brought him up into sight, an elderly lookout sounded a horn from a bighorn. Children came running and jeering, throwing stones and refuse, joined by haggard-looking women with unwashed hair and dirty faces. 

The warriors had to stop for breath-- their leader looked like he was carrying a few extra pounds, a beer gut poking out of the old biker leather vest he dressed himself in. Children jabbed at Karl with sticks, and he roared at one of them, sending them scattering.

But once they saw that he was tied and helpless, they rounded back on him in doubled hatred.

Even though the wind swept the clifftop, the camp stank. Smelled of sickness and age. Karl did not know why the refugees persisted here. Why did they not leave. Why didn't Papa Khan take them in, why did he not cull the weak, the old, the sick, and let the young grow back strong? How would they revenge themselves on the Bear through the sick and the weak and the drugged?

A girl almost a woman was leaning against one of their grim totems, almost as though hiding behind it. For a moment, emotion warred upon her face, conflict, fear, revulsion, and then rage. She gave a hoarse cry and pushed away from the totem, racing up to Karl to spit at him.

This, he learned later that day, was Lizard Catcher's sister. The Khan ambassador. Good gods, but the gruesome Minotaurs were probably having their fun with the man. Karl never did understand why what was permitted in revenge was punished in those like Vedius the centurion. Not that Karl had any toleration for that at all-- it was disgusting no matter the reason. 

The old witch of the Khans, their wisewoman, was waiting for him. Her leathery face was a face full of piercings, and the heavy plugs in her ears stretched the lobes down out of shape. She was baked from the sun, ravaged from drugs and toxin, and her remaining teeth were stained from cactus juice. Her eyes glinted with the prospects of vengeance. Damn the Minotaurs! Karl almost wanted to tell her that he had no hand in abusing their ambassador-- in truth, he had half a mind to recommend their tribes not be harmed at all.. the Khans were worthless and would destroy themselves in time. But pride and honor held him back. He was Legion.

She had him tied to one of the totems, unable to move, unable to sit or stand, kept in a painful crouch on his knees. Children threw stones and excrement. A male youth mustered up the courage to strike him. Old women with sagging tits wailed and gnashed their teeth. Omens and portents were muttered and chanted. The only individual who did not actively hate him was a very old man who merely smoked coyote tobacco in the shade of his tent.

Karl knew he could escape. He could escape if he kept his wits, and if the gods favored him. He could not believe the gods would punish him for the misdeeds of Minotaur Centuria. Damn Aurelius of Phoenix, damn Golden Fang! No matter the proud armor their centurion wore, he was a cannibal, a savage, a monster.

They would kill him tonight or the next. These were auspicious times, when the barrier between the worlds was thin. Already, in the haze of thirst and pain, Karl was beginning to think he saw the souls of the dead twisting in the harsh light. 

Unable to move his hands into the proper gesture of invocation, and unable to move his swollen tongue in his drying mouth, the frumentarius whispered to the gods for succor. The sick and useless of the village mocked him, but it came to be that his prayers were answered.

...

In New Reno, you gotta do what you gotta do, but it was hard goin back. Esperanza thought she had it. Her career hadn't turned out the way she wanted. She hadn't made it big like she thought. Just somethin about her put people off, and she thought, well, what if she was just a wife to her man, but she'd tried that number one too many times. Didn't work out. Them dyin, mostly, and their piece-of-shit sons and piece-of-shit families fighting over what was left.

When she got to thinking about it, she loved that radio show. Just her, the microphone, that shoddy little booth in the clapboard station they recorded in. It came on at seven, after the news, and if you stayed through you could listen in on the crime drama at eight fifteen, where the ghoul detective solved mysteries. There were a couple advertisements throughout, but she best remembered the one for Mrs Baker's soap. That damn jingle haunted her to this very day..

So it was good while it lasted: the Adventures of Billy the Bear and Jenny the Mule. Who fuckin' knew. But she got to sing a bit, cowpoke songs mostly, and do all the other voices. Friendly cowgirl voices in big sky country accents. Timid little old lady voices. And the evil witch voice, the Witch of Bryce Canyon.

But Billy was a goddamn drunk, couldn't hold it together.. and then people found out about her, matched the voice to a name and a history.. didn't want a woman like her coming into their homes. Didn't want her telling stories to their children. The Ladies Temperance Union was on that so quick.

She was flat broke, boiling shoe leather.

So she came crawling back to New Reno like a dog returning to its vomit. Once they recognized her, once they snapped their fingers and finally got one of her names on the tip of their tongue, once they saw she tried to make it big and struck out again, their smirks and smiles cut straight through her.

Thank God for Star and Frankie. They were normal enough folks, normal enough for New Reno. They’d been in the biz all their lives and they were a real couple of pros. A real couple, too. A team. A package deal. In New Reno you had backstabbers and double-crossers of every kind. You couldn’t trust anybody, but they did—the two of them. Even if they saw other people on the side sometimes, even though they did what they did to get by, they had each other’s back.

They made all their decisions together, and they decided they were going to open a restaurant some day. A place of their own. Frankie and Star had owed somebody money for a long time, something real bad, but they finally got out of it. They wanted to start something for themselves, but in the meantime, they were doing what they always did, what they knew how to do.

Esperanza got to living with Frankie and Star in the attic of a building that probably was condemned before the bombs ever fell. Roaches everywhere, the normal kind, thank God for small mercies. Star would go around with a high heel in her hand, smashing them like a hammer. 

Star was funny. She had a loopy sounding name but she was tough as nails, pragmatic as hell. She was always making lists, always doing up figures. Kind of a masculine type and sometimes you could mix up who was who when one of them was moving around in the dark. Her hair always done back perfect tight, pinned up. She had high cheekbones, a wide jaw. Intense looking, like she was always thinking, tallying up something in her head. She was all business, and the two of them were saving money in a sock hidden away in the attic.

Frankie, Francesco, now there was a character. Handsome as Star was, dark hair and eyes, a snappy dresser if he felt like it. Warm, charming, a bit of a sleaze. One kinky puppy, that guy, and Jesus Christ the things he taught her how to do to a man. He knew everybody, though, buddy-buddy with everybody, and a lot of the girls liked to work with him. He had his tubes tied, for one, he was safe, you weren’t going to get pregnant, and he was a nice guy before things went south with his boyfriend Jonesy. He had a good attitude most of the time, goodish anyway, always woke up early, no matter how late they stayed up talking and trading smokes. You'd see him ironing Star's clothes, setting them out. In his time, he’d been a hustler, a dancer, a stripper, a bodyguard-- 

“Yeah, we worked for Mister Vinnie, back in the day,” Frankie told her once. “He didn’t want anybody knowing about him, so he kept me close as a bodyguard. Sure. I got to wear real sharp suits—that one over there on the hanger, that one was killer. I had these cufflinks, and too bad my shades got broken. I got to stand around holding my wrist like this, looking like some kind of ice cold killer.” Frankie did his solemn gangster pose over the hotplate in their attic room. He was always making something good to eat—making up a menu for that restaurant they were going to have someday. “And I learned how to shoot a gun, but thank God I never really had to. Vinnie was all right to us.. we had worse.. but he was just a two-bit gangster at the end of the day. Not like your mister. Thank God your husband didn’t send his guys after Vinnie. Ha! Ain’t that funny, Liz? The three of us here?”

“Star,” Star said archly before her eyes dropped back down to her notebook.

Frankie winked. “Sorry,” he said. “We change names too. Personally, I don’t like Francesco.. doesn’t sound respectable. Sounds kind of sleazy.”

“Hate to break it to ya, Frankie,” Esperanza told him, “but we just nailed like ten people today and now you’re standing around in fishnet stockings.”

“Well that’s what I call a productive work day, you know?” Frankie laughed back. “And these are as classy as they are comfortable.”

One day Jonesy smashed up their attic and took the money Frankie and Star were saving in that sock. Frankie was crushed, completely crushed, said you couldn’t trust nobody, oh god, they were never going to get out of New Reno.

"We still got us, Frankie," Star said, but she called him by a different name. Then she took Esperanza aside, held her pointy glasses in her hand, and quietly asked for help. Didn’t know she could do it herself.

They went to go find Jonesy and get the money back… but he’d spent most of it, he owed people, he was hysterical when they found him and one thing led to another—

Star and Esperanza rinsed the red out of the bottlecaps under a rusty hand pump. “We’ll just tell him Jonesy had a debt.. he ran off, he felt bad about it,” Esperanza said after awhile, the first of them to speak.

“Good you came with me,” Star said. “I knew you’d know how to handle this.”

Esperanza hadn’t meant for that to happen. Never did.. but it never changed. Late at night, lying on her cot in the corner of the attic, Esperanza would feel alone and apprehensive while Star and Frankie slowly fucked in the neon half-light. She worried about her future. What she was going to do. Frankie and Star would get by, somehow.. and they had each other.

Their fortune changed one day with that damn Enclave holo. Paulie was the producer, director, and the lead actor in the piece, if you could call it acting. He was spoiled and arrogant, the son of the family who owned the studio-theater, and he was a cruel-minded fat sack of shit. Decades ago, somebody figured out how to jury-rig the systems back into functionality— and so of course, it being New Reno, the sleazy element figured out how to record and play back their very own holo porno. For a fair price, you could buy a seat in the theater and take in a bit of entertainment. 

Now none of this was anything out of the ordinary for the three of them living in that cramped attic space, business as usual really, holo or live. The thing that made this one different was the direction Paulie wanted to take it in.. and the direction it took.

Paulie had Frankie push out the rollie cart of costumes, and Star hiked up an eyebrow right away when she saw the gray wool uniforms and the leopard print thingies. Felicia came prancing out in her own leopard print whatever, smirking and smiling, fluffing her tower of hair.

“I don’t know, chum,” Frankie said, looking it over. “So yeah, I guess the Enclave were some snappy dressers, I get that. And it’s been years we came out of California, but don’t you think this is kind of.. “

“Blasphemous?” Star said.

Paulie huffed, “You wanna get paid or not? I got plenty of ass lined up, not just you.” 

Esperanza wasn’t born in New Cali; she didn’t come from Shady Sands, Hub, or Vault 15. Still, she’d heard the story like everybody else, and from the start the whole thing didn’t feel right to her. But in New Reno, you did what you had to do, and so there she was—on her hands and knees in a leopard print dress, playing the part of Chitsa the Chosen One, while two Enclave scientists “ran some tests” on her.

Paulie smirked and smiled. Of course it wasn’t right, and that’s why people would eat it up. The taste of taboo. You think men slunk into porno-playing theaters for a good family yarn? Now Paulie had his own part in the whole fiasco. He had an honest-to-god set of Enclave armor, lit-up and everything. It took him and two of papa’s goons to help him suit up, wheezing and hacking.

The whole thing was doomed from the start. Felicia thought she was dating Paulie, thought she was Paulie’s girl, and she got all in a snit that she didn’t get the main role. Esperanza would have been glad to give it up, but Paulie took a special hate to her and had her right where he wanted. Frankie and Star were a hair away from quitting and taking her with them—Star didn’t like the language he used when he talked rough with her, and Frankie shoved him when he pulled her hair hard.

“God damn it, no, it’s fine,” Esperanza growled. “It’s just—fine. Let’s get on with it.”

It was a million degrees in that studio and they could never get all the way through. Paulie couldn’t last, and he had no business being in his own film besides. He should have just let Frankie go at it— the act itself was so routine, so done-out for Frankie that it seemed like he could go forever, like nothing was ever going to be enough for that poor guy.

Frankie was suited up as some kind of Enclave officer, and he looked good in uniform. He was practicing his stone cold killer bodyguard face, but you could see him looking over at you, checking on you if you were all right. Star was looking good as an Enclave scientist. Like some no-nonsense nurse. She’d at least try to get you to like it, though, but Felicia—the bitch—would always press too hard or scratch you inside where nobody could see. She’d smirk and watch your eyes for the pain. She was playing the role of a tribal handmaiden and hated every minute she wasn’t the star.

They never did get all the way through the holo. The last day of filming, Paulie came clanking in as the evil Enclave trooper, ready to punish Chitsa the Chosen One, and what happened happened. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was the Will of the Desert or whatever shit, but the honest-to-god Enclave armor hit an honest-to-god malfunction. The suit of armor locked up, lost all mobility, and Paulie fell over backwards and cracked his head open.

It all went so fast that everybody just kind of gawked.

Paulie jibber-jabbered for a minute, twitched, shat himself, and died, with a pool of blood spreading round his head on the dirty studio floor.

Then Felicia started screaming. She screamed that Esperanza killed him, she killed him, the murderer.

It all got complicated real quick after that—Felicia, studio folks, Paulie’s papa, holy shit. 

So the three of them beat feet.

At the time it all got excited, but it was plain to see afterward it was all an accident-- the filmed evidence backed it up, because believe you me, the holo was still running the whole time and to this day fetches a hefty sum in its bootleg form. 

So when the three of them ran away into the desert, nobody followed. Just the three of them going, dressed like Enclave personnel and Chitsa the Chosen One.

That was how they went to Vegas.

...

When Caesar bade the praetorians to take her out for fresh air, Esperanza was surprised to see Sextus ducking into the tent. He smiled right away, handsome, dumb, and happy. Siri appeared shortly thereafter, weary, with downcast eyes.

It's not that she was trying to get the kid into trouble. It's just he was always around, waiting on her. It was his job. 

Standing by, serving water, fetching her from her punishment when old Ed said she was being bad. That one time she'd been covered in shit water, confused and delirious, and when she felt strong arms lift her up, she couldn't help but bury her face into the kid's neck and shoulder. 

Since then he'd watch her more closely than before. When the great dominus bent her over and got down to huffing and puffing, the praetorians would usually hold their wrists and look up at the sky or the ceiling of the tent, like all of a sudden the canvas got real interesting. But the kid wouldn't take his eyes off her, and if she let out a little gasp, if she bit her lip, you could see a ripple of emotion across his face.

Esperanza figured that Lucius would banish him from here on out, that the kid would spend the rest of his assignment counting grains of rice in the supply tents.

But no. Here they were, her, him, and Siri, who trailed somberly behind them as they walked the banks of the Colorado. She didn't trust Siri. She didn't trust other women very easy, and who knows what so much time here would do to your mind. Even now, even after months, a year, Esperanza found herself thinking from time to time that this was becoming normal. And Siri belonged to Vulpes. A good move. She could spy on everybody. She would see everything that happened. Who was hurt, who was sick. Some of the men seemed to trust her, to honestly trust her, but it was a fatal mistake to let your guard down. 

This whole morning walk had to be a test. Caesar wanted to know if she would run. If she would try to turn the kid. She took a gamble in telling Luke the facts of life. Did he tattle her out? What would Ed do.

But there was nothing the kid could do for her. Not yet. She wouldn't get far running.. and she didn't know where to cross. No way in hell was she going back to Cottonwood Cove, not even if every red beret in the service had set up shop there for a battalion barbecue. Not even if you had vertibirds whirling overhead and the angry ghost of Chitsa the Chosen One and all her deathclaw friends.

While Sextus chatted gamely, camp rumor as usual, Esperanza kept her eye on the healer. Siri was drawing something out of her tunic, something that gleamed. An arm cuff that she had not worn today, one of the simple beaten copper cuffs in the shape of a serpent. Looking full into Esperanza's face, she let the item drop into the sand without emotion. 

"... of course, I don't blame them if they don't march back with the Amazons," Sextus was saying, "but it would be something, wouldn't it? There used to be women fighters all their own, the Maenads, but that was years ago and only the Chimera and the Hounds have them now. They say Yucca Leaf can knock a man's head off from a mile away.. "

Siri came to touch her arm. "Oh, domina," she said. "Your bracelet!" 

The three of them stopped. Esperanza felt her throat constrict. 

Sextus raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he said, "it must have slipped off. You've lost weight." His thick fingers brushed her arm, and he smiled. "Don't worry, domina, we'll find it, we can walk back the steps we came."

Esperanza stared hard into Siri's face. The woman was blinking back tears.

"I think I see it," the praetorian called as he walked down the wash. "I thought I saw something shine in the sand."

"What the hell are you trying to do," Esperanza hissed.

"I'm not very good at this," Siri whispered in a voice that wavered, "but you have to know, I'm on your side. You have to tell Caesar that you want me for your slave. Lucius gets me otherwise-- I don't know where I'll go from there. Tell him you'll need a female slave and a healer for the baby." 

Too much to process at once-- why would Siri change ownership-- oh shit, it's like she thought, then. "There's not going to be any baby, you know that."

Siri took her hand briefly in both hands, but Esperanza yanked it away. "I know," the doctor told her. "I know. You just have to tell him what he wants to hear."

"There's another way across," Siri whispered. "There are small craft hidden. We can't go yet, with the Cyclopes just across the river. We'll have to wait until after they destroy Bitter Springs and march home. The NCR will probably send out a force after that. With a Legion attack that huge, that entire stretch will be covered in patrols. If we go from the crossing point.. we'll probably end up right on them. They'll-- they'll know you. And you can tell them I helped you." 

Esperanza glanced out across the river, where the white sand turned to murky blue, and the haze from the heat blurred the far banks of the Mead. "They watch me all the time," she said in a voice of contempt. "How would I even get away, past all these men?"

"These next two nights will be busy-- dancers, masks, costumes.. "

"Found it!" cried Sextus.

Siri looked as though she would want to grab Esperanza's hand again, but her hands rose and fell in a jerky motion. She wiped her eyes. "Talk to me again alone, domina," she whispered. "Please-- please tell him you want me to wait on you."

"I don't know if I can trust you. How do I know I can trust you? You're his slave."

"We are all slaves here," Siri told her. For a moment, Esperanza thought that this woman would have been a real doctor in a real clinic, prestigious and respected, instead of the scrawny sad thing trotting down the wash.

As Sextus came strolling back with the arm cuff held out like a trophy, Esperanza forced a smile, while her heart choked in her throat. She was tall enough, and didn't they say she had huge man hands? Wasn't Siri scrawny enough, bony enough? Who would know them in the dark, in all the commotion, if they were dressed in armor with helms and scarves?

No-- you can't trust her. Not yet. Don't do it, don't give in. Yet.. yet could this be it, could she be close to waking from this nightmare?


	17. Chapter 17

The NCR had defeated the Legion once before, and just barely. The red tide poured across the river, across the Dam, and the invincible legate led the vanguard into Boulder City. The story went that after the rangers sprung the trap, the city went up in fire and thunder, and First Recon dropped the legion officers and plunged the mob into confusion. The story went that after the invincible Longinus saw that he had been beaten, he opened his arms wide, held them out to the cracking of the rifles. But it was not his day.

The major fighting had been ended for weeks, but there were still drills and patrols. There were the wounded to tend to. Bodies to bury, Bear and Bull alike. Boulder City looked like rubble to her, like any ruin, but the fellas insisted there had been a city there and the rangers blew it sky-high with the Legion at its heart.

Esperanza walked out east with her high heels in her hand. She did it for her, for them, for the time, maybe—she went out east to sing for the soldiers. One of them told her later that it was like the girls in the good ol days, a better time, before the bomb. It seemed like something that somebody ought to do.

The soldiers looked so young to her, bored, anxious, playing card games with their buddies or laying slack on field cots, swathed in bandages. She palled around with them awhile, sitting with them, talking, and of course, she sang for them—“Oh California” of course, “Mighty Sequoia”, “Solamente Una Vez”, to name a few. Someone in the crowd asked for “I’ll Fly Away”, and another even asked for “Sands of Arroyo,” a song that celebrated Chitsa the Chosen One. She sang for them standing on a rickety picnic table around the central campfire of their tent city commons. Looking back, it was the best gig she had.

As the sky began to lighten, and you could see bats moving above the camp, one of the army docs came to find her. He was in his thirties, maybe, but exhaustion hung ten years on him: tight lines around his mouth, rings set into his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice sounded full of splinters.

The army doctor said his friend was awake now, awake and asking for her. ‘It’d mean a lot to him, and me,’ the doc told her. ‘He’ll know you’re here, but I’ve had to give him a lot for the pain.. ‘

It turned out the major had fought the legate man-to-man, or at least tried to.. he’d been gashed bad with a machete, and the wound went sour. Esperanza found him trying to sit up for her when she entered the tent. He was leaning on a forearm and looking dazed, a handsome man of Chinese descent, his face glowing with sweat in the lantern light. The doc helped wedge a pillow under his shoulder, and he stared blankly, like he couldn’t be certain where he was. Then a smile spread across his face, and he breathed her name in a breath of pain.

This man, Major Hsu, he spoke listlessly but forcefully, saying he loved her style, what were her influences, where did you learn to sing, who taught you. She told him the desert taught her, the empty sands, growing up just her and her mama in the ruins of an old Catholic mission. His eyes shut and he tried to talk about a place they used to go drinking back in his Academy days—what was that place, Rich? he slurred to the doctor, and he tried to tell her about the music, the artists they brought up there. They talked on until morning.

She had half a hope that she might find somebody like him, some gentleman in the ranks who would treat her all right. She would be loyal. She wouldn’t cause any trouble. She was just tired of—tired of not knowing where it was all going to go. And she was getting older.

It got too hard for him to sit up, and he begged her pardon, slumping back down on the cot. Coughed hard a couple of times. Then he whispered if she would sing please. Did she know “Isn’t it Romantic”… ? That was the song at his wedding.

Esperanza felt her hopes dash in that moment, but she kept her composure. She smiled her red lipsticked smile, and of course she would sing. At the end, his breathing evened out and she thought he might have died right there—oh lord don’t let her kill another-- but he struggled to lift a hand and she touched his fingers.

That was that.. and maybe that was all right, how it was meant to be.

...

On the walk back to Freeside, she thought to herself that maybe she didn’t need to hang on some rich man’s arm to be happy. If she lived life as an ornament, there would always come something better and brighter. Sometimes, walking over rubble on her way back from work, she would look at the flag flapping over the Old Mormon Fort and think—for only a moment—what it might be like to help the Followers of the Apocalypse. But she knew better, thinking of Dr Dreckenstein and how he left her in that crumbling mission yard. Hypocrites, the whole lot of them..

Frankie and Star had an audience with the King, came back with new names and an old dream, and Esperanza was happy for them… but she wouldn’t go with them. She was third wheel enough.

Star even hugged her, and Frankie got all wet in the eyes, and he said lady you come and visit us, don’t be a stranger.

She was getting work in some of the casinos, then. Things were starting to look up, maybe. Who really knows where that would have gone, or how it would have happened.

So it turned out an old friend of hers was living in the district just outside the Strip. She’d known him cool and collected back in Carson City some ages ago, a quiet young man who looked sharp in vests with a tie. He worked security in a little corner joint she used to sing at, a place that could have been half as grand as the Shark Club if the owner knew what he was doing. She’d liked Anthony, one of the few men in her life who wanted nothing from her.

Esperanza didn’t recognize him at first coming off the Strip. He’d been walking home from an all night detail at that shitty little place he ended up quitting two weeks after, but he knew he right away, went on up to her. What Esperanza saw was a woman in a gold dress with a slit up the thigh, a woman tall and gorgeous, with a great stack of hair and sequined gloves to the elbows. What she heard though was the chorus from “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” sung in a lilting falsetto, as the sequined gloves gripped her hands warmly. She used to sing that song for him all the time; he’d said his mama used to sing it to him.

Turned out Anthony was still working security, still cool, still collected, still working security, but this time he fit into spectacular dresses that made Esperanza look like a dog. He brought a certain charm and pizzazz to his workplace surroundings as a female impersonator, and if any guests became too fresh, “Glitter Doll” would sort them out in the way that Esperanza remembered.

Life with good, good enough as it ever was. No, she didn’t sit at a man’s right hand at a polished dining room table, didn’t tuck into a three-course meal with slices of Brahmin and out of season greens, no ice cream in fancy glassware dishes with the real long little spoons. No standing on a box while a fussy tailor takes her measurements. No shitty little son-in-law near her age, smirking and fingering his cufflinks. None of that. No more.

Instead she sat on a pile of rugs salvaged from the ruins of a carpet emporium, that was her bed space in the corner of the apartment they rented out, and she had her modest outfits thrown over the top of a battered dressing screen. They ate frijoles and pigeon carnitas, drank alfalfa tea, and played cards over a table made out of old chicken crates with a bing cherry patterned cloth over it.

So there she was, sitting on that pile of carpets and cushions she made out of old shirts, listening to the sounds coming through the open window. Gunshots from time to time, or a King singing in the lamp light. Sometimes a moth would fly in, looking for the lights they rigged from old mason jars. Anthony would be twisting the ears around on the radio, trying to get the soulful voice of Mister New Vegas. Esperanza made a clumsy curtain out of an old blanket and a ripped-up dress for fringes.

Maybe, for her, it wasn’t that she wanted to be known. Listening to that radio. Maybe she just wanted to be around people. So lonely in that mission yard, that crumbling church. Mama grabbing her arm real hard and twisting, ‘cause she knew you were thinking thoughts about the devil.

Maybe it was the radio that made her feel less lonely. Maybe.

They were sitting in front of a cracked vanity on cushion stools, when Anthony brushed her hair slowly and said, “Oh, baby, you’ll know when it’s your time.. you just have to do your best, and put your faith in Jesus.”

And she felt Mama’s grip on her arm from beyond the grave, tight cold fingers, and a voice that warned about the Beast.

...

She’ll remember that summer night in ’79 for so long as she lives. Every detail, the sweating hot evening, the lights of the parties across the Strip, the blast of fireworks over the city, Mister House and his strange birthday self-celebration, the roaming bands of soldiers on leave, the laughs, the drinks, and the drunk. Good lord were they drunk; you couldn’t stagger anywhere without a King spilling his mai tai on you, and by the time that Esperanza left Frankie and Star’s place (it had a new name, they had a new name) the two of them were touching each other’s faces and laughing til they cried.

Anthony still had to work that night, and even though it was creeping on to dawn by the time Glitter Doll came home, the Freeside apartment was really in no condition. He stepped over the discarded clothing in great elegant strides on his tippy-top high heels. His head was canted to the side, this great beehive stack of hair, as he leaned to unfasten an earring.

“Baby,” he said, in a real careful tone. Not going to judge anybody but.. “Why is there a dead white boy in the bathtub?”

Esperanza had gone out to get a fresh towel. “Oh Jesus,” she cried, “I just left him a minute!”

She bolted back into the bathroom, saying, “I can explain.”

That young soldier was one of those big corn-fed boys, shoulders wide as a billboard, thick-necked, in the light armor of a scout troop with a beret on his head. In some great drunken undertaking, he had been working himself out the front of his uniform so he could take a piss on a wall when she found him on the street. The second thing she noticed was his rifle half sliding off his back by its strap.

Esperanza figured he was going to go and pass out and get himself hurt, or in trouble, or lose that rifle, and where were his friends? She hesitated. She knew she probably shouldn’t get involved, but then, she never had any real trouble with the NCR crowd.

“Hey, honey, why are you out here alone?”

“Take a piss by myself, mostly,” he replied. “’m a big boy.”

Esperanza had raised a perfectly drawn-on eyebrow, because why yes, yes he was. Now, she wasn’t going to let him just wander off and pass out in this neighborhood. They would eat him alive, First Recon or no— she knew it by his beret as well as his aim.

She’d been hoping he’d sober up enough to be out on his own, but he just got worse as the night wore on. He’d got real sick, throwing up on his hands and knees on their scraped tile bathroom floor, just throwing up like there was no end to it. He blacked out and that was scary, but she was by herself then and didn’t want to leave him to go look for help.

So she’d stripped him down and hauled him into the tub, gave him a wash down, let him sleep it off there. Cooler there at least, and that way he could puke all he wanted without her having to scrub everything down the next day.

Anthony was in the process of removing his wig. “You think this boy needs a doctor?” he asked.

“I thought about going down to the Fort,” Esperanza replied, “but they’d probably just turn up their noses and tell him to sleep it off. And charge me an arm and a leg.”

“I don’t know, doesn’t he look pale to you?”

“He’s a redhead.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow, because why yes, so he was. “Well, guess he’ll be all right. We’ve seen worse. You can sleep in my bed if you want.. I’ve got to get changed and get going. I’m working another half shift for the celebration.”

She had some rice thickening in pigeon broth on the stove, intending to get the soldier to drink down a cup of it when he came around. Anthony took some for a meal, cleaned up, and went on his way, leaving her to sit on the commode and frown at the big lug groaning in her tub.

Better here than blacked out in some alley way. That red beret wasn’t going to mean shit. At least here all he might die of was embarrassment, and that was all right. She’d been around the block. She knew how it was when you were young and dumb, blowing off some steam.

The dogtags in her hand said BOONE, CRAIG NOMI, his rank, his blood type, and NO PREFERENCE where you would have stated your religion. Poor dumb Sgt Boone.

She went out to check on the broth again. Might turn it down to a simmer, just enough to keep it warm. Maybe she would have some. It had been a long night already, walking back through Freeside on a broken high heel.

She wasn’t sure what to do with the gun. Keep it safe. It had fallen by the way when she dragged him into the apartment. It had taken almost everything just to get him up those stairs, but she couldn’t let him lose that rifle. That was who they were.

Esperanza picked it up by the strap, felt its weight lean around toward her off the floor. She meant to take it off into the side room or something, put it out of the way, but as she turned around she saw the dark shape of a _man climbing up through the third-story window_.

The scene got ugly fast, him still half-drunk, her terrified and outraged at an intruder, but halfway through her screaming for him to _put your fucking hands up_ , Manny Vargas recognized her voice and gasped: “Oh my God.. Jenny the Mule!”

Then he said, “ _Oh my God_ , can you say, ‘Gee Billy, we’re in a bit of a pickle?’”

Later, she told Manny Vargas how he came a chin hair away from getting his chest blown out. Later, he told her that someone said they saw a man drag Boone off into that block of apartments, that they thought he lived on the third floor, and Esperanza realized: do my neighbors mix up me and Anthony?

Well, you’ve got those big hands.. Manny explained.

Manny said he lost sight of Craig for just five minutes and couldn’t find him again, and he thanked her up and down for taking him in. “This man is my brother,” Vargas said, crouching by the big lug in the bathtub, patting his head. “He’s adopted,” he added.

Now Vargas was in high spirits, trying to get his buddy to come around, wake up man, you’re missing it. “Aw man, and we’ve got formation in three hours, too,” he said. “You might as well enjoy this while you can, a real live Jenny the Mule.”

Esperanza sighed.

Then Manny went to her, eyes dancing, and he took her hands in his. He was a charmer, those deep brown eyes. “Ma’am, you’ve already done enough for us tonight, but I have to ask you another favor.. “

Later she hears the story how they straggled in late to formation, completely hungover, barely functioning as living human beings. The lieutenant yelled at them, the captain yelled at them, Major Dhatri fumed, and when they demanded to know the pathetic excuse, Manny unbuttoned Craig's shirt in the front where a woman's name was written in melting lipstick.

...

Craig Boone turned up at her door a week later. The peephole showed her a grim-faced sergeant in his dress uniform. Razor sharp. Ramrod straight. It turned out he was shorter than her when she let him in, but you wouldn’t know it at first.

She re-did the locks and latches and moved the chair back up against the door, smirked at him, and led him in to the parlor.

It quickly became apparent to her that the somber young man had no memory of what had happened the last time he came up to the third floor apartment.

The thing that worried him the most was that he might have blacked out and lost his rifle. Didn’t want someone running off with it.

“Well I almost shot your friend with it. He climbed up through the fire escape and into the window!”

He was clearly nervous, but talk of Vargas seemed to lure him out a little. “That’s nothing, he’s crazy. He’s a Khan.. not afraid of anything.”

She smiled and said, “So what’s it mean-- Nomi? Is that a tribal name?”

After all, weren’t there a lot of redheads in the Arroyo tribe?

“Ma’am?”

“On your dog tags there, honey.”

“No middle initial, ma’am.”

She smirked. “At ease.”

He gave her the bottle of California red that was slipping round in his sweaty hands. He couldn’t have afforded that on his salary, and when she asked, he blushed harder and said he and Vargas had to peel potatoes and scrub floors for a week. Then at the end of the week, they got called in to the Colonel’s office, they got made to stand there before his desk, and James Hsu swiveled round in his chair and gave them a speech about responsbility, watching out for your buddy, and for paying back what was due.

That was when he drew that bottle of wine out of his desk and gave it to Craig with his compliments.

“Well baby,” she said, laughing at how scared he looked, “we better drink it.”

He told her later that he thought he was going to faint.

The thing with Craig started almost right away. She’d been with younger men before, and she enjoyed their exuberance, their energy, and their uncomplicated adoration. She had taught them a few tricks she hoped they would take to their wives one day.

Some of her young men didn’t really know what they were doing. Some learned. Some didn’t. One of them had been sweet to start with, brought her flowers and called her ma’am, but his language changed around her and his eyes got hard, and he talked about taking her away from all this and how he could save her from vice, sin, and the devil. She had laughed outright then, before the flush of anger came, thinking of that pretentious little boy who always came too quick, who thought he could grind her down and be her master.

Craig wasn’t like that at all.

He’d been nervous around her at first, but after a few glasses of wine and a teasing hint, he set about with massive patience and grim determination to make her come harder than she remembered. Now he had what God gave him, to be sure, but she always thought his real skill was in his tongue, lips, and fingers. She wasn’t used to a man who lived to please her.

Oh God, but his tongue slow on her clit, her hands roaming the fuzz of his hair, just shutting her eyes and feeling the world fall away..

His interest in her was intense but not oppressive. Not worriesome. He was young but his soul seemed old to her. No illusions clouded his judgment. No weird ideas. He wasn’t ashamed of her past, wasn’t jealous, either, and he didn’t pretend like it never happened. She knew now that there was a darkness in him too.

He bonded quickly to her, almost as though he had always been there. A gentle lover when she wanted it, a solid fuck when she needed it. He seemed to realize she was a great deal smarter than he was, but he wasn’t dumb in an irritating way. He knew his limits. He was always sure of himself. He was street smart, at least, and that counted for a lot of things. He thought the world of her, and he listened. Not just pretend. There wasn’t a word uttered in his presence that he didn’t hear. It had been a comfort and a pleasure to just lay in his arms and talk about anything that came to mind, while he slowly rubbed her mound or nuzzled into her neck. She had been groomed by her men to be seen, not heard, when it came to private affairs.

She remembered him laying there drunk, warm and buzzed, laying back on the crook of his arm, softly asking her if they could try something different. Sort of a dumb smile on his face.

If they disagreed too strong about anything, it was one thing. He told her he thought her stage name “sounded dumb” and she told him he ought to know what dumb sounds like. He just laughed with a cushion over his face and then he started to ask her in Spanish what her name really was, if she would just tell him.

Carla Dreckenstein was not, admittedly, the most glamorous name you ever heard.

“But that’s you,” he said, drawing a fingertip across her cheek. It had been too long since she used that name.. that was what Mama called her, and to hear it out loud it seemed spoken by a ghost. Uncomfortable, at first, and she hated having told it to him, but he seized on it right away and took it back again.

His friend Manny would come up and the three of them would drink together, have a few laughs. Vargas was a real charmer. Craig’s mother had been a caravan guard, a crack shot with a rifle, and he’d come into the wasteland on a wagon. He was orphaned at a young age and a family of Khan tradesmen took him in. Him and Manny were raised like brothers, and you got them two-for-one.

It was good times at first, when they were all friends. The three of them drinking on a sofa with no feet. Getting real comfortable. The warm flood of alcohol going over their senses.

Manny could play the guitar. Always trying to find a new string for it. Craig and her would sing-- such a high voice on a big man, their voices blending together and falling away.

She told him no when he asked her to be his wife. The proposal surprised her, though she should have guessed he might try. He said he loved her, and she told him he was too young to know what was good for him. He pressed, and she might have overreacted, but if it took a thrown lamp to finally get him out of the apartment, that was that.

It was almost a relief to see him go. She worried she might ruin his life-- she always ruined everything.

At first it was strange not to have him come up to the apartment, not to see him sitting with Anthony or Glitter Doll there on the sofa. She felt free. She felt new. Just a dumb kid, she said to herself.

Anthony seemed to miss him, too, but he rubbed her back and said maybe it was for the best. Mismatched.

She got on with her life. Went to fancy dinners with a businessman from Shady Sands. Listened to him talk about his money. Watched the ceiling of the hotel room while he pumped away at her. She would finish herself off after he was safely snoring. One time, giving him a wet suck, she had started to rub a finger into him when he yelped, jumped up, and got indignant.

About a month after he left the apartment, Esperanza received a letter. Craig wrote to her in his big blocky print and apologized for not coming by, but his unit had a call-up and were moved to [------]. He was due back [-------] and wanted to come see her, he loved her, and he missed her.

She thought she could have moved on without him, but even holding that piece of paper in her hand, she felt it all coming back. When he showed up at her door, she leaned against the jamb in her best dress, smiling slyly, with strains of the radio playing in the apartment behind her. “There you are, kid,” she said. “Been thinking about you.”

She had no idea where her life was going. What shape it would take. What path it would travel. Her slave girl Carmen told her that the Fates wove every life into a strand in the Tapestry..

She knew the choice he had to make. It took some time to piece it together. She hadn’t been thinking right for the first few months, confused easily, sick, tired. Siri said the bullet bounced off her skull and came out her neck. Missed the major blood vessels but she’d never see out of that eye again. It would atrophy and die.

She thought Craig would have died. There was talk awhile back that First Recon attacked the Cove, but it all turned out to be rumor and wild stories propagated by jumpy young recruits. She thought Craig was dead. He’d go down fighting.

But to hear, after all this time, that he still lived.. he would take her back, she knew it, he would understand what she had to do.. it would be the two of them again and they could go back to Freeside, like life when it was good..

Several threads run together in her mind: the solstice with its masks and revelry, the hidden water craft, the NCR patrols.. if there was ever a time to disguise herself and sneak out of the Fort.. it is now. It is now. They always said the Long Night marked a new beginning.


	18. Chapter 18

“I can’t know for certain without a scan... ,” Siri told her as she brushed her wet hair in long strokes, “but his symptoms are consistent with a brain lesion or a tumor.”  
  
“The headaches? Staring off into space? Loss of bodily control?”  
  
“And delusional thinking. Easily confused. Confusion over the passage of time, memories, people, events.. “  
  
“I’d say he’s always been delusional.”  
  
“More than usual.” Siri paused. “It’s only a matter of time now.”  
  
Esperanza didn’t try to hold back the vicious smile crossing her face. “He’s gonna get his,” she whispered.  
  
Siri’s hands dropped to her shoulders. She gave a brief squeeze, heartfelt, impassioned. “You can’t do anything to harm him,” she whispered. “I know you want to.. I know your heart screams out for it.. but if he dies, Lanius wins. The alternative is worse.”  
  
“You said it yourself-- it’s only a matter of time. Why wait?”  
  
“Please, domina.”  
  
“Don’t call me that here.” Alone, just the two of them, in one of the womens’ tents for now.  
  
It had just slipped out like that. Siri lowered her eyes. Seeing the shame that crossed the other woman’s features, Esperanza felt her throat constrict. A deep anger welled up in her. “I’ll do it tonight, after he sleeps.”  
  
“No, d--.. please, Esperanza. We’ll slip away. I’ll dress like a decanus, and you can go as a scout. We’ll wrap up our faces and bodies.. it’ll be dark. Let me do the talking.”  
  
“You don’t want revenge?”  
  
“That’s not for me to decide.”  
  
“He’s a fat, aging has-been who destroyed thousands of lives with his power fantasy. Hell is for people like him,” Esperanza told her. “I’ll help send him there.”  
  
“Please, don’t talk like that anymore,” Siri whispered. “I hate him, oh God, I hate him.. but the Legion needs a master. On his death it goes to Lanius.. and even more will die. There will be no hope.”  
  
“If Lucius had a pair.. he’d take over and march them home.”  
  
Siri sighed, and she pressed the back of her wrist against her eyes. “I don’t know that he--”  
  
“I told him to.”  
  
“Oh no.. you said that to him?”  
  
“I told him he’d better. I’m too old to dance around these things.. “  
  
“You said that to him out right?” Siri pressed the matter again. “You told him to take over and go against Caesar and Lanius?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What did he say?”  
  
“What do you think?”  
  
“But he didn’t report you to Caesar. Or did he. He would have had you put to death.. “  
  
Esperanza opened her arms and made a sarcastic gesture. “Well, here I am,” she said. “So when do we do this? Siri, focus.”  
  
“I.. later in the night. I’ll come for you. I don’t know when, exactly. You need to be ready. There won’t be a lot of time, but we’ll be able to slip away in the confusion.”  
  
In the confusion.  
  
Esperanza turned to face her. She wanted to see the younger woman’s eyes. “You better tell me right now if Vulpes is coming with us.”

When Siri said nothing, Esperanza hissed, “That little shit doesn’t get to get away. Those two rangers down there in the pit, they should be coming with us. Not him.”  
  
“Stella will kill you,” Siri said.  
  
“You think I want to be here? You think I want it to be like this?”  
  
“No! No.. I understand. I know you.”  
  
“No. No you don’t know me.” Esperanza paced. “I’ll talk to her.”  
  
Siri grabbed her hand. “No,” she said. “No, please. Only you and I will go.”  
  
“He’s not coming, then.”  
  
Siri shook her head. She blinked hard and raised her free hand to her eyes. “Only you and me,” she said.  
  
Esperanza yanked her hand away. Good, then... but a twist of apprehension ran through her anxious mood. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Siri,” she said. “This you-and-Vulpes shit. It makes me wonder if I’m right to trust you.”  
  
Siri said nothing, and Esperanza stared at her hard. “If you betray my trust-- so help me God.. “  
  
“I saved your life,” Siri offered quietly.  
  
“I should have died.”  
  
“Please,” the healer urged. “I’ve been here longer than you.. but I haven’t lost my mind. Not like some of them. We’re going to go free.. but please, we don’t have much time left alone. They’ll be sending in the slave women to dress your hair and make you ready.”  
  
“Ready for what? The sibyl finally going to throw me in the fire?”  
  
Siri shook her head. “No.. she’s not even here, she’s with the Centaurs over in the Legate’s camp. Miles from here. They’ll be having their own rites.. but there are some priestesses still here. The ones most loyal to Caesar. There’s going to be ritual of some kind and Caesar will try to conceive a child with you. The heir.”  
  
Purely out of reflex, Esperanza rolled her eyes-- or at least tried to. The dead eye was growing weak, but the sheer contempt and ridicule in her voice was enough to get it across. “Here we go again.”  
  
“I know.. I know, I’m sorry, Esperanza. I wish I could take it all away.. “ Siri’s voice caught. “But you have to be brave. This will be the last time. After the festivities die down.. after all the commotion, we’ll be able to slip free. Keep thinking of that.”  
  
She keeps using that word ‘commotion,’ Esperanza noted. “Don’t worry, I guess I can get dressed up one for some old bastard to poke me a couple of minutes. For old time’s sake.”  
  
Siri hedged, “There might be an audience. The priestesses will try to cast a magic spell.”  
  
“Look, I used to perform at the Shark Club in New Reno.”  
  
“I don’t know what that is.”  
  
Esperanza smirked. “That’s because you’re a good girl,” she replied. “So whatever, this ritual, what else?”  
  
“I-- I’ll be there too, I think,” Siri answered. She seemed contrite already. “He-- he’s requested that I examine you, so we’ll say that’s why I came in here to be alone with you. I’m the closest thing to a doctor these people have.”  
  
Esperanza wasn’t worried about people watching her fuck or get fucked. “You want me to ask you to stay afterward, or you think that sounds suspicious? I didn’t like you.”  
  
“I’ll ask to check on you. I’ll say I’m concerned.” She paused. “I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about. All the evidence points toward sterility for him. He’ll be fifty-five years old, and he’s been kidnapping women for decades now. He’s never caused a pregnancy.”  
  
With the prospects of escape so close, Esperanza felt a rush of trepidation. Coming home pregnant from another man. From him. Coming home just her and Siri. All those other women trapped here. Stella and the other ranger. Traitor whore, Stella yelled up at her.. her face twisted with rage.  
  
She would want to talk to Colonel Hsu. He would understand. She would want to talk to Colonel Moore. If she understood that little dog-headed shit, she had to understand another woman..  
  
She ended up saying, “I need to go home, Siri.”  
  
Maybe that was a stupid thing to say. Siri sighed, ever patient. “I know,” she said. Esperanza felt like a cow for saying that to Siri of all people.  
  
Siri reached for her hand. Tears glimmered in her eyes.

...

Fox stood nude in his lair. He had washed and performed a rite of cleansing. Anointed himself with oil. He hated to be unclothed but there was no one else here, only the familiar spirits he had invoked for the rite.  
  
He stood on the red stone floor of the cavern. His feet and toes looked splayed and ugly to him. Others reacted to his face and clothed form as if it were attractive or pleasing to the eye, and this could be worked to his advantage, but standing here without a stitch he felt disgusting and exposed. He always did. The ugly raised marks and scars that time had faded but never erased. The mark of teeth all over his body. He hoped that in the waters of the underworld he could wash away the bite marks and be clean at last.  
  
Sunlight receded from the natural opening of the cave, and now the flames cast their orange glow about the banded cavern walls.  
  
Fox whispered softly as he threw incense in the flames.  
  
Then he took the wolf mantle in his hands. The fur beneath his fingertips. The edge of the hide around the eye-holes. He dropped it in the fire and watched the flames consume it.  
  
He turned away from the fire and did not watch for very long as the fire consumed the headdress. The fire blazed, the oils igniting, the fur burning bright as the canine muzzle twisted on itself, as though it snarled in the moment of its destruction.  
  
Fox made a prayer to the small votive figures in his lararium, his little altar with its earthenware, feathers, and effigies. A prayer to holy Diana to ask Her forgiveness for what he had done and for what he would do.  
  
A cazador buzzed quietly in its slumber.  
  
He took a coin from the dish before the altar, and he placed it on his tongue. He washed it down with water from a bowl. Then he poured the bowl over his head.  
  
He blew out the candles in the altar.  
  
The coin would be safe within his body. He would hand it to the boatman. He would stay true.

...

The sun was setting in the mountains. Karl prayed for the gods to intercede before the dark. Already, the khans were rousing from their afternoon nap and the mood of the camp was of restrained excitement, with vicious grins and meaningful glances sent his way.  
  
Some of the women had begun to form a drum circle, but there was not yet any kind of dedicated playing. A few children jumped and danced in anticipation, while others seemed more interested in their captive.  
  
They poked at Karl’s wounds with little sticks they sharpened in the fire. Karl knew he would be lucky to come away from this dirty vile camp without infection.  
  
Several of the rougher-looking khans in studded biker jackets, the ones who took him captive, they were still drinking their frothy, filthy alcohol out of whatever containers they had scavenged. One big swine of a khan was drinking swill from an old gas can, the liquid running down his chin into his braided beard. A hard-faced little boy was tugging on his fat arm for a drink.  
  
One of them was bent with his ass crack showing, bent at the fire as he stirred a rod of rebar in flame. The metal was starting to glow. Karl felt a twinge of shame and disgust that such a fat sack of flesh had captured him. When the khan saw Karl looking his way, he smiled with cracked teeth and called over to him in the English language.  
  
“Hey,” he yelled, “know what I’m going to do with this?”  
  
He waved the hot metal rod.  
  
A woman with a long skirt and lots of bangles was arranging cards on a crate. She had a pretty face with a distant look, but instead of any kind of mercy or kindness, she seemed aloof from his treatment and interested herself in the meanings of her cards.  
  
Karl arranged his options in his mind. He was tied to a totem, but he might be able to work his hands free in time. Perhaps one of the children would drop something he could use. Perhaps he might be able to twist his arm. Vulpes Inculta used to bind them to teach them how to escape.  
  
With the children now unafraid and vicious in their petty way, Karl figured he might be able to take one hostage if he were free. Or the woman with the long skirt and the cards. He might able to run. The khans were foolish, careless, and brutish-- they were bound to make a mistake.  
  
Only the band of warriors would present a real threat to him. The rest were old, were women, were young or sick. The warriors were drunks, were cowards at heart.  
  
The night before the Long Night was a sacred time to many tribes in the wasteland. The night before the solstice. It was said that the barrier between the worlds was growing thin, and would grow thin tomorrow night.. and that it was thinnest here, where the mountain met the sky.  
  
If he did not escape the khans.. Karl knew he had little chance of seeing the sun rise on the third day.

Just as Karl thought his thread was coming to an end in the Tapestry, new threads appeared, and began a pattern he had not foreseen.  
  
A child saw it first and screamed.  
  
The camp reacted in alarm to the new visitors.  
  
The gods answered Karl’s prayer. The answer came in the form of two strangers, as sometimes the gods sent strangers.  
  
They were sharpshooters in First Recon, two of them, and they brought their rifles across their shoulder. One was dark, the other pale with sunburn.  
  
The children scrambled away from Karl; one dropped the stick he used to torture him. The warriors got to their feet faster than Karl ever expected from such a fat lot of drunks. The women shrank back, but their wisewoman stepped out of the drum circle to face the men in red berets.  
  
The darker one spoke. He called out in a dialect of Spanish and he said his name was Dragon’s Tooth. This man was a child found by his mother. This man was his brother. They joined the Bear’s army to fight raiders and the Legion. When the Bear was on the move, Dragon’s Tooth had a bad feeling and stayed behind. He played sick, and he was a coward. His brother was forced to commit evil in his stead.  
  
His words fell in silence. The wind blew through the mountain. A woman’s bracelets jangled. Then the wise woman approached them.  
  
The other one, the big one spoke. “Had to come back,” he said. A deep voice, quiet, but it carried. “Had to find a way to make things right. Be good again.”  
  
Furtively, Karl slipped the sharp stick closer to him with his foot. He worked it back round to his hand. With some effort he could use it to twist into the ropes.  
  
“Lay down your rifles,” the wise woman said. Her face was lined. Her tattoos still showed in vivid colors. “And step back from them.”  
  
The big one nodded. “Yes ma’am,” he said, and they both did so. The sound of jingling leather straps was the only sound then.  
  
The wise woman stepped forward and bent to pick up the rifles by their straps. Her bracelets slid to stack at her wrists. She stood, stepped back, and turned to the others.  
  
 _Take them both,_ she hissed.  
  
Karl watched in horrific fascination as it unfolded-- khan justice-- and he thanked the gods for sending this evil place an enemy more hated than the Legion.

...

The slaves braided her hair with threads of gold, looping the plaits round in the style of a great lady. They produced gold hoops for her ears, and the right ear had to be pierced with a hot needle again before it would permit its jewelry. Esperanza hissed and struck one of the slave girls with a slap, but Siri’s eyes pleaded with her.  
  
The slave that never spoke, the white girl with the curly brown hair, she brought an armful of a diaphanous gown that whispered and hushed when the fabric rubbed against itself. She held it in her arms and stood by while the other girls anointed Esperanza’s body with rosewater.  
  
They dabbed the scent on her throat, her breasts, her wrists, her mound. It reminded her of her wedding nights, the various lot of them, and Esperanza fought to hold back a smirk. _Two hours to dress me, two minutes to finish._  
  
She shut her eyes and thought of drawing a knife across his throat. Blood drenching into the sheets..  
  
She held out her arms as they dressed her in her gown. They dressed her like a Roman goddess, that gauzy gown that left little to the imagination. They dressed her in gems and ornamental stones and metals.  
  
The mute slave smiled at her. She had a stump for a tongue.  
  
“Is there anything the domina requires,” Siri asked in a humble tone.  
  
“Think I need somethin’ for this braid,” Esperanza worked it in carefully. “Think I might need.. a hair pin.”  
  
Siri’s downcast eyes shot up, and she had a tense NO look on her face. She was about to answer when one of the priestesses strode into the womens’ tent. The slaves went to their knees, and Siri also.  
  
It was the priestess with the frightening eyes. Tiberia, a very healthy-looking mixed race woman with perfect teeth and strong bones. Must have come from a Vault to start out that way, must have worked her way into favor to stay that way.

Esperanza had come to learn the names and faces of the priestesses, some hollow-eyed, some burning with cult hatred, others frightened and brainwashed, fearing the crack of thunder and lightning as the wrath of the gods.  
  
The sibyl wanted her dead, always did. She’d get her way. Esperanza couldn’t let her guard down.  
  
Tiberia’s black-rimmed eyes flashed down on the slaves, and a contemptuous, self-satisfied smile crossed her lips. “You look beautiful,” she said, “even with that hole in your head.”  
  
“You like it?” Esperanza snapped back. “I know where you can get one for yourself.”  
  
Streamers ran from the silver bands on her wrists, and the movement of her arms accentuated her dramatic garments. Tiberia was bringing forward a small dish of copper and turquoise. Some liquid in it. “There is a fire in you,” Tiberia murmured. “Even after all this time. I fought once—like you.”  
  
Esperanza glanced at the dish. “Come to poison me for your hag?”  
  
Siri tensed.  
  
“I serve the Son of Mars before all others,” replied Tiberia. “I have come to anoint you.”  
  
“No thanks.”  
  
“Ill-tempered as always, I see.”  
  
Siri stood to place herself between the priestess and the muse. Tiberia’s smile vanished. “How dare you presume.”  
  
“Domina, please,” Siri begged. “I was told by order of Caesar himself to watch out for her, to see she comes to the ritual tonight healthy and ready.”  
  
Tiberia’s eyes narrowed. “As was I,” she said. “You may test the oil if you wish.. “  
  
Unthinkingly, Siri reached out a hand to the dish of oil.  
  
“…as who would know poison better than you?”  
  
Siri hesitated just before her fingers touched the liquid. She frowned. As she rolled the oil around her fingers and then tasted some, Tiberia continued, “It’s for the best that he does it himself, you know.. cleanly. There has been talk of his punishment. There are even some who think he merits Damnatio Memoriae.”  
  
Siri couldn’t hide the look of hurt that went across her face. Tiberia twisted the knife with a smile. “Not me, of course.. I’ve always thought it was his place to die after Searchlight. It wasn’t right for you to use that concoction to bring him back. His thread ended there. It was unnatural.”  
  
“You going to get on with this,” Esperanza broke in, “or what?”  
  
Tiberia shooed Siri away with a dismissive gesture. The woman who would have been a prestigious doctor slunk away in her drab coverings with the red X over the breast. She hunkered down with the other slaves, ready, and watchful, with those sad eyes.  
  
“I fought once,” Tiberia continued after a moment. She began to anoint Esperanza with the oil. “I was frightened and foolish when they brought me out of the darkness of the Vault. I did not know my path. But every life is a thread, be it dull or be it glimmering.. and the Fates weave every thread into the Great Tapestry. Yours is a bright thread. You will come to understand.”  
  
She drew a swath of oil across Esperanza’s forehead, and she smiled, touching fingers to the scarring of her wound. “I dreamed you became the mother of our people.”

They walked together from the womens’ tent, the priestess, the muse, the would-be doctor with the entourage of slave girls trailing some paces behind them. Ignatius and Herennius waited for them, the older man looking off at the fires and festivity down below. Two teams of men competed in mock combat. A masked youth with a sheep’s head ran with a torch up and down the tiers of the hill.  
  
Esperanza looked beyond the torches, beyond the braziers and the campfires, to the gleaming of the river and the white face of the dam.  
  
The praetorians walked her to the summit, and they drew aside the flaps of the tent to let her in. Siri squeezed her hand briefly before she made her appearance. A quick intense look of hope.  
  
The guards had dragged Caesar’s throne slightly to one side, and it overlooked tables of fresh game and earthenware dishes of various delicacies. The braziers threw off a smoke heavy with incense, and two of Tiberia’s sisters were humming softly before its glow.  
  
The praetorians stood smartly all about the tent, combed and clean, and young Sextus was among them. He almost started to smile when he saw her, but he hid it quickly.  
  
Esperanza tried to hide her trepidation. Siri had warned her about an audience.. but she really couldn’t see Ed fucking her in front of _all_ these people..  
  
Old Ed had been eating awhile, and there were crumbs on the black fur of his finery. She supposed he meant this all to look magnificent, but now more than ever she was aware of his delusion, his foolishness, his narcissistic insistence on making himself a living god.  
  
He looked old and fat to her, surrounding himself with these strong young brainwashed men. They would never live to grow old enough to know better.  
  
Tiberia made a low obeisance to him, and he patted her thick hair once as though some benediction.  
  
“Lucius,” he said.  
  
The head praetorian responded as obedient as always. His face held an expression that Esperanza did not know how to read. He bent to hear out something that Ed whispered to him.  
  
Then Caesar smiled. “I am the Son of the Mars, the Conqueror of Eighty-Six Tribes, and it is I who brought law to the chaos of the wasteland.”  
  
The priestesses gasped.  
  
“But it may be that my reign must continue without me on earth,” he said—his voice sounded gruff, frank, fake almost. The way he never sounded as smart as he probably thought he did. “It may be that your Caesar may leave you to become a god.”  
  
 _Sooner than you might hope, kid._

“Tonight we will conceive an heir to our people. I will leave you my son, your king, to guide our people and protect what we have won.”  
  
Esperanza was slowly looking over the gathering when Caesar had Lucius bring her to him. She thought she caught a glimpse of even more legionaries waiting in the next compartment, as though Ed needed even more witnesses to his self-indulgent delusions.  
  
“I have won every battle and every campaign in the wasteland,” Caesar continued, “but the poisoned land has taken its toll on my mortal body. I cannot sire an heir of my blood. I have asked the gods.. and the gods have answered: my heir will be an heir of the spirit. An heir of the Legion. The best and brightest of you have been brought here tonight for our holy ritual.. “  
  
Alerio looked pleased with himself as he ushered them in: young men chosen from the ranks, hard-bodied, anointed with oil and wearing only sandals, loin clothes, some with armbands and all with masks. There were twelve of them.  
  
Ed pitched his voice to speak to her directly. “You’ve always been uncooperative and ungrateful for what I’d done for you,” he said, “but remember tonight that you’ve been paid less for more. Tonight you’ll be richer than any woman.”  
  
He added, “I’ll go first, of course.”  
  
Esperanza backed away. She sought out Sextus, looking for a friendly face. Won’t someone speak up.  
  
The masked faces—some animals, some weird gods—turned and tilted to look upon her. There was a jaguar, and a face of two serpents. Masks and oiled bodies. Twelve of them.  
  
Siri was horrified and starting to protest—medical reasons spilled out of her mouth while Esperanza twisted out of Lucius’ grip. He grabbed again for her, she slapped him, and he struck back with a blow that staggered her.  
  
“You’ll have to tie her the other way, dominus,” Tiberia was saying. “She looks as though she’ll bite.. “  
  
She fought, but they were stronger, and they were more. Caesar had the right to go first, and she was right—it wasn’t very long, something about the way the praetorians were holding her down across the throne. They moved her for the rest of it, back in the back of the tents, while the priestesses hummed and sang, while the Fort thrummed with music and festivities.  
  
Siri screamed. Siri screamed until they silenced her.  
  
There were twelve of them. All twelve.


	19. Chapter 19

They were married by a drunken preacher with Glitter Doll as best man, maid of honor, and witness. It was enough; her apprehension was crowd enough, and if she was a blushing bride, it was a blush of shame. There was a little voice that whispered it wouldn’t work out; she’d ruin his life; she didn’t deserve to be happy.

Anthony tried to talk her out of it, saying, He’s such a young boy, and that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.. and maybe she dug in her heels just to be contrary. To prove she could do it. To do something nice for herself for a change. She married the others for survival, or for her career.

She’d thought Manny Vargas was a friend, but how quick he changed when he heard what was going on. That it was serious. A cloud came over his face and she wondered what how he talked with Craig when it was just the two of them. Telling him this was the kind of girl you had fun with, not the kind you settled down with. Time to move on, man. She’s been around. She had a past. She was so much older..

They did what Manny wanted, and he wanted to settle down. Had enough of getting up early, shining his boots, sharing tents. He wanted to sleep into the afternoon and smoke weed. He wanted to sit and talk. He loved that rifle, but he didn’t want to be told when to shoot it.

Craig seemed glad to settle down. They were going out into the country, there was going to be a nice small town, and they were going to have a place of their own. Manny’s sister and their kids lived there some of the time, one of the roaming bands of Khan tradesmen like the kind that took Craig in.

He’d just wanted to make things right. He could never make decisions on his own. He stood there caught between the two of him, his past and his future.

She shed her name, stepped out of it like some dress she let fall to the floor. She dressed plain and drab, the better for chores. She used to care how she dressed, how she looked, but the flat heat and thick dust seemed to choke the care out of anything.

Novac was losing its defenders one by one. The younger rifleman got the itch to walk again, and he left with a caravan. The older one took a bad bite from a ghoul that didn’t heal up; he’d left with Daisy’s son from the Followers. One of the shifty guards bolted in the night, and the next morning, Miss Jeannie May answered questions from an NCR lieutenant and his patrol. When it came down to just a handful, Craig and Manny split into shifts and she hardly saw him anymore.

He tried to stay up with her, nuzzling and affectionate at first, and then exhausted. He slept like the dead while she crept around the motel room, trying to tidy up or make food or do something. Just watching him sleep. Trying to be his wife.

You had to wait to use the community stove. The community fridge could only hold so much. The air conditioners hardly worked and they were too new in Novac to have one, and the power rolled half the days in the week.

Carla had little in common with the frontier wives, only that they were also female. But they were not women like Carla was; some of them liked to throw that in her face. Some kept it to little nasty comments.

They all knew how to scrape leather clean, how to churn butter, how to card wool. They could scratch a living from the ground. Carla learned how little she knew.

Alice McBride talked out of both sides of her mouth. Little comments hissed forth that cut her down, denigrated, demeaned her. Little remarks about her age.

A baby at your age..

It frightened her. She’d been pregnant once before, back in Carson City. The lines and divisions threatened the family she married into, and after her miscarriage, her full-grown step-son slithered round with cold eyes and a smile saying how unfortunate, we all hope you’re feeling better. The dynasty remained, until he pissed it all away.

Since then she’d learned how to better use her diaphragm, that little piece of rubber that she counted on. Craig called it her bubble. She remembered him laying on that motel bed with his arm across his eyes, smiling slightly, a bit drunk, saying, baby can.. can you leave your bubble out.

They should have talked about that before they married. Maybe they wouldn’t have married. Maybe they shouldn’t have.

It hit her all at once, one day. She’d been taking some food out to Mr Noonan; sometimes he forgot to eat. You had to catch up to him. One of the few people that were nice to her in that place.

He’d been talking about some damn thing.

Carla realized the depth of her mistake, her foolishness. The sour taste of reality pervaded her senses. She felt nauseous. She’d married some man ten years her junior and half her smarts, because he fucked good and she feared getting old alone. Worse, she was starting to think that Manny and Anthony both had a point. Now she went and brought another life into her mistake, and she’d be a bad mother, a bad mother like mama..

She walked away and kept walking.

She wasn’t sure where she would go. Tears blurred her eyes. She should have thought it out better. When she first came to Novac it was with a chain of wagons passing through, and she’d been so in love with Craig that she hadn’t thought anything of where they were going. It all seemed bright and new. Clean. She always thought the desert was clean.

Daisy Whitman found her. She didn’t make a fuss, and for that, Carla was grateful. A very capable older woman out there in her overalls with a gunny sack and a rifle. Out prospecting.

She knew Carla wanted to run away.. but she walked her back instead.

“How did you do it?” she asked. She was afraid to have a baby.

“I didn’t,” Daisy replied. “I’ve never even had my period.” She smiled. “I’m still waiting on it. Who knows!”

“But your son?”

“I loved his daddy. He’s the son I could never have.”

Craig knew she was gone. He’d gone out to find her. Under the shades he was red-eyed and exhausted, so relieved to see her and Daisy coming back. He’d been worried. Even after she said she’d gone for a walk with Whitman, even after she’d pulled him back to bed and lay by his side, he couldn’t fall back asleep.

So she’d stopped stroking his head and drew his face to look at her. She challenged him.

You can’t let him choose for you, she told him. This is what he wants for himself. I can’t take it here much longer.

He put his hands over his face. He tried to tell her Manny was family. She hadn’t known then what had happened with the khans, or how he needed them to forgive him. All she did was take one of his hands and lay it on her belly.

In a quiet voice he said they could go back to Freeside. Maybe he could stand guard for the Mormon Fort. He’d have to make sure Miss Jeannie May could line somebody up for when they were gone.

Maybe they could come visit after the baby was born.

For a few days, she thought that maybe it might work out. Maybe it was just her nerves. That little voice was quiet in the corner of her mind. Craig and Manny fought again; he’d drifted away with a hard shrug and a whatever, man.

One night she heard Craig coming home early, while it was still dark, and she’d rolled slowly on the bed with a smile.

They weren’t Craig.

The two of them gagged her right off, a hard hand over her mouth. They pulled and jostled her, and it happened so quickly. They dragged her out through a chink in the fence, and she could only scream into a salty palm as the lights of Novac receded.

They struck her hard to keep her walking. She was too afraid to fight back; she was too afraid of losing the baby.

Carla stumbled hard at one point and fell down the gravelly soil into a wash.

She was on her hands and knees anyway, so they fucked her, one and then the other. It seemed to go on forever, and she started to suffer deep rhythmic cramps, like a whole world of pain opened up. Dizzy and cold, a roaring in her ears.

She had her baby in a ditch, didn't even look like a baby just yet, like a little rubber doll-- she thought of her doll baby as a kid, the one she buried in the mission sands. She heard screaming and it was her, but there was no one but the two of them.

The legionaries didn't know what to do with the miscarriage.

They started getting nervous, shoving each other. They didn't know what to do with a birth, with babies.

They tried to make her stagger on, but she could hardly move, and she was trailing it.. they tried cutting the cord, and then the rest of it came, and they were panicked.

She hardly remembered Cottonwood Cove. A bad dream. She wasn't sure how long she was there. Jeering faces. Sharp voices.

The man Canyon Runner, the slaver. He felt up hard between her legs and she cried out in agony.

They were going to sell her. The two men were supposed to bring her and the baby alive. They were going to sell her. Manny Vargas sold her. It had to be him. They were selling her.

Look at all that hair.

She's old!

Touching her body. Their hands on her body.

Where is my baby?

My baby, she screamed at them.

The world was spinning.

They had her up on the block to sell her.

A spear driven into the ground.

...

“My baby,” sobbed the woman tied like an animal, “my baby.. “

Her voice fell away into a keening sound; Siri held her head, burying her face in the woman’s neck. There was nothing she could do for her, and shame and helplessness poured out of her eyes.

Lucius heard the dominus growl, “Watch, don’t you look away, you watch our future here.”

In Bitter Springs the children screeched and danced in triumph. Khans yelled and jeered. The wise woman chanted all the while, and she called the dead to witness, she called all those spirits to drink in justice.

The traitor Dragon’s Tooth was yelling, “That all you got,” while one of the bigger bikers gripped him tight by the hair.

“That all you got?” he screamed.

The big redhead was coming back around, blood running down his face from a gash above the eye. He was getting back to his feet when they struck him again, and a child ran from his mother’s side to bash his head with a rock. The sniper fell down again, stood shaky on his hands, vomited, and half-fell in it.

The boy whooped with triumph and his mother kicked grit in the enemy’s direction.

A khan pulled a glowing bar of rebar out of the fire. He moved in.

“N-no,” the redhead grunted. “No, not him..”

The warriors pulled Manny’s head back tight.

“Fuck you! It was me who let you down! You gonna do this or what!”

They did. They pulled back his head and drove the red-hot bar into his eye.

…

In the outlaying desert before the Legate’s camp, the sound of drumming could be heard first, and then the stench of burning flesh pervaded the air. Drummers drummed and a castrate blew a syrinx, and the high sound shrilled through the ceremony. Ragged red banners shared stakes as well as bodies, and some suffering carcasses still moaned in the grim twilight of their existence. Some were soldiers from the Bear, some soldiers from the Bull, some wandering tribesmen, and one a hapless traveler snatched by the raiders of Centaur Centuria. All were flesh.

Some would say it was forbidden, but that was from a different time. From the oldest times, the strong fed upon the weak, and the strong did as they wanted. The tribe of the Hidebarks knew this. The Bull People needed to have a taste to know true power. This was a place where flesh was eaten. It was holy. It was sacred. It was the way of the gods, the true gods.

The sibyl Kuchira sang. Her voice shrilled and caught like the sound of a coyote. Lanius bent her and fucked her, while she shrilled on hands and knees. His men yelled and howled and smirked. He drew out slick and drove into another body, younger than the old witch, one of the yipping priestesses that hissed and danced around the fire.

A legless woman lay where the warriors had left her last. They always came to find her when they were flush with rage or excitement. She had been an officer once, one of McKay’s young lieutenants. They had fought to take back Flagstaff, to take back law and reason. That seemed a lifetime ago. A blurry existence where she had a platoon, a husband, a mission, a name. They called her Leg now, in their language. Where are you, Leg? They would howl. Where are you? She was where they had left her.

Bonesplitter fed at the right hand of the Legate. He was sucking marrow, throwing bones to his slaves, who crawled and fought like starving animals.

The praetorian detachment always withdrew when the Centaurs were in a rage and mood like this one. In the halls of the capital they had sworn to defend the Legate with their lives, but here, far removed from the law-givers and men in civilized dress and speech, a cold and greasy doubt gnawed at their souls. It was best to stand aside and let it happen. It was by their lord’s hand that Lanius was made the Legate.

When the sibyl recovered, hissing and growling, panting and moaning, she leaned on one shoulder and yelled for the khan to be brought forth to them. Her wild eyes danced, and she giggled a slavering sound. As she clambered to her feet, she wiped saliva from her chin, and she stood with a rattling of bird skulls and chicken bones. Her stink was immense, but then, the air choked with smoke fed by flesh.

Lizard Catcher stumbled. He could no longer walk under his own power. Bonesplitter bid him thrown to his men and all night they scorned and used him, for the act of hatred weakened the totems of the khans.

The priestesses hissed and lunged at him like serpents, but his eyes showed nothing. The Centaur that shoved him forward was a former warrior of the Red Grin People, and he wore only a wrinkled chain of ears and fingers, and a bulge ill-kept by a greasy loin cloth.

When it was finished, truly finished, when the last of them could no longer muster up again, Tiberia raised her hands in a gesture of devotion. She thanked the gods for their blessing and intercession. She gave praise to Olympus and to Great Caesar for his wisdom and judgment. This was a holy thing, a sacred thing.

“Please,” the wretched healer whimpered, “she’s bleeding too much—“  
It was done, and now that it had finished, the priestesses led them out where they were killed, all twelve, the sacrifice of perfect bodies with blood soaking into masks and feathers.

Their service saved the Legion, but they could not be permitted to live thereafter.

…

In the center of the Legate’s camp, Centaur soldiers in grease body-paint kicked Lizard Catcher forward. They threw him across a giant tire from a tractor. Lizard Catcher no longer fought. Kuchira shrilled and her women capered around, for the calling of the gods was a moment of intense excitement.

Kuchira drew out the sacrificial dagger and held it high in both hands. Her eyes rolled white and she met the gaze of the Legate, who reclined on his great seat now, his face unmasked. His faceless face of no skin, just the hollow of his nose and the sunken gums of a permanent grin.

Lanius turned his thumb down.

Kuchira plunged the dagger into the khan, and she cut out his heart. It was not an easy thing, a thing of struggling, gripping, sawing, tearing. Two decani held the body while she fought for it, and there it was. There it was, a bleeding heart, and the camp roared and keened to see it.

…

Ignatius was cutting the bonds away from the woman’s bloody wrists. Herennius stood around uncertain of what to do next. Sextus kept wiping his eyes.

“Should we.. ?” Herennius started to say.

Lucius snapped, “Stop that,” at the youngest praetorian, whose face was flushed around the purple scar. He felt ashamed, looking at the torn and used up body of that woman, with her streaming gown sullied and her necklace broken across her back, beads everywhere, from one of the twelve pulling it tight in his moment of climax.

Siri was trying to hold the woman’s arms in closer to her body, trying to massage her shoulders, while a screeching, croaking sound came from her. The priestess Pine Needles remained behind to help.  
Lucius turned away from them and went to find Caesar; he felt like he was slinking away. The dominus had watched for most of the duration, watching with a cold smirk of satisfaction. Their lord was now seated on his throne, his eyes shut in meditation.

“My lord,” Lucius said quietly.

Great Caesar said nothing.

“What do you wish us to do now,” Lucius implored.

“Hemm.. pah,” was the answer.

Lucius cocked his head.

Their lord opened his eyes, and the left looked off a different way than the right. “Mm.. mmmeww?,” were the words of Great Caesar.

“My lord!” He put out his hands to steady the sagging body. No, not again—not now!

“Luummyus,” Caesar mumbled. “Llumyus.”

A weak sound of flatulence squeaked. Then the body of their lord shook, and he gripped Lucius’ arm with tenacity. The sudden smell was intense.

Blood was now running out of their lord’s right nostril.

“Sextus, come to me,” Lucius pitched his voice, trying to keep his panic out of it. “I need assistance!”

Edward Sallow came out of his spasm with rolling eyes and a whimper. When he collapsed, none of their efforts could revive him.

The festival of Brumalia went on drumming and piping throughout the Fort.

None suspected the crisis on top of the hill, nor the great evil that slumbered inside it.

The praetorians washed their lord’s body and laid him out in bed. He looked pale, wrinkled, weak. Mortal. He did not respond to any of their voices.

“This is her doing,” Tiberia murmured in a low, cold voice of shock. “She was here to do it.” Her eyes snapped to look on Siri.

“No, please—“ the healer gasped. “I was here the whole time.”

Ignatius went for her. “I always knew it,” he snarled.

Sextus hesitated, crouched by the healer and Esperanza, who had curled in on herself with her hands over her face.

“Wait,” Lucius said; his voice croaked weakly on the word. His voice was choked. “We don’t know—“

He never finished. The sound overtook it all.

By instinct Lucius threw his arms to shield their lord, but it was far away—they rushed to look outside and to the east, in time to witness the chain of explosions that ripped through the camp of the Legate.


	20. Chapter 20

Flames licked across the grounds of the Legate’s encampment, or what remained of it. Burning scraps of tents. Splintered stockades. Bloody bodies stumbled through the wreckage of the camp and across the wreckage of men: torsos and meat, confused, disoriented, and in agony.

The drumming, piping, and the screeching of the women were all absent. An eerie silence set in. The explosions were so loud they were heard and felt, and the roar of sound blotted out everything else if there was even other sound.

The Red Smile warrior, who answered to the name of Helvius if he had to, was crawling across the ground. His hands were still wet with the blood off the khan envoy he helped butcher, but there was so much more blood now, his blood. He couldn’t hear a thing.

A coldness swept across his body. He knew he was dying.

He stared blank at the rest of the camp. One of the Centaur officers was falling down against a post, his hand against his ear. His mouth was open in a yell but Helvius heard nothing.

Helvius could no longer find the strength to lift his head off the ground. His world was pain.

A shoe stepped in the field of vision of his left eye. It was a shoe of black leather as the western people wore.

Helvius saw without seeing the man that stood there now. He was dressed in black, black coat, black shirt, black tie, black gloves. The raider would have thought he looked out of place here in the grisly encampment in the desert, but it made sense. He understood completely. The answer was in the stories his old people whispered round the fires.

It was a demon.

The intense young man had a black glove held in a fist. The other held a weapon.

Helvius watched the muzzle orient upon him and then--

The gunfire sounded far away, as if from a tunnel. Bonesplitter slowly returned to consciousness. His eyes and face were full of grit. The weight of half a table was upon him. He shoved the planks off him and groaned with pain as he did so; splinters embedded the entire right side of his body. He rolled on his side and rubbed the sand and dust off his face.

He couldn’t see and he couldn’t hear, not very well.

The camp descended into chaos. As centurion he would have to take control of them. They didn’t do well when overtaken with surprise. Was it the desert rangers? Was it the NCR?

His head spun.

Bonesplitter used the wreckage to help himself stand. The Legate was still alive, furious; Bonesplitter could hear his deep breathing, his roar.

When the world lurched into focus, Bonesplitter saw the fires in the camp and the shredded meat of the Centaur warriors.

Another explosion went off. Fountains of earth and sand heaved into the air. Bodies flew like dolls snatched from the hands of children.

Lanius was drawing out his great sword. Dirt and grit stuck in the fleshless grooves of his face. His naked gums.

An eerie figure passed through the camp like the shadow of death. It was Vulpes Inculta dressed like the dissolute. It was hard to see him at first, all in black like that, without armor to weigh him down. He walked calmly through the wreckage as he dispatched the members of the centuria. The decani earned his special interest.

Milonius tried to rush him with a stake in his hand, but Vulpes did not even look. His right arm moved and fired. Milonius fell.

Lanius staggered, mis-stepped, and then righted himself. He had to lean on that great blade, holding on to it with both hands. It dug into the dirt.

It all happened so quickly. A cold vertigo swept over Bonesplitter and he found Vulpes Inculta walking right up to them. The centurion had no weapon; he’d been gorging when the first explosion went off.

Bonesplitter boasted once with the others of what they would do once Fox fell out of favor. They would coat him in pitch and set him alight, and no one would ever again speak his treacherous name. And Fox would welcome it, because they would drag him about the camp and use him how he deserved. They despised him as they feared him, the leader of the frumentarii here. His nasal voice. His long pretty hands. His beautiful face and long throat. His nasty sly little comments.

Yet here he stood, dressed sharp, and not a hair looked out of place. He wore hearing protection and nudged it off with his weapon hand. The other hand was held just above his eye level and Bonesplitter did not yet know what that meant.

“Knew you would betray us to the west,” the Legate heaved. “Here you come.. dressed in their finery.”

“I will stand before Minos and Rhadamanthys in my very best,” replied the fox. He smiled. “I considered my old Titan armor.. but then I wouldn’t want it to hold in the blast.”

With a smart gesture of his hand, Vulpes opened his sport jacket and showed the Legate how he was wired with explosives.

He was holding the detonator tight in his left hand.

Those cold clear eyes looked calm, so calm. A great relief. “It’s a dead man switch,” purred the fox. “It doesn’t matter if you kill me now. I let go, and it goes off.”

Lanius was breathing hard. Great, huge gasps of air. Bonesplitter could hardly take in air. His lungs were crushed in absolute terror. “Don’t kill him,” Lanius roared. “Don’t kill him.”

A thin smile went across the young man’s face. Bonesplitter heard them say once that Fox lost his soul long ago. Looking into those eyes, he believed it.

Bonesplitter wanted to run. Perhaps he could make it out of the blast; Lanius would not. Lanius was the target. Even if they killed Fox now, his hand would release the detonator. They could not outrun him. Even Lanius looked disoriented, injured, sick from the force of the blast.

It was already armed.

Vulpes holstered the firearm and talked to them like a sensible person, like a civilized gentleman. He controlled what happened here now and showed no fear. He looked sharp, cold, unreal.

“I have always despised you,” Vulpes went on. “You are a giant child. Capable, I suppose, of some low cunning. But you cannot understand the doom you would have brought to our people. The gods led us out of darkness and chaos, and gave us order once more.. but it is you and your horde that would have squandered our salvation. You scavengers, cannibals, monsters. There is nothing you can do now. I open my hand, and Rome wins.”

The Legate’s shoulders shook. Bonesplitter did not know if it was with laughter or with rage. “You think me a fool,” Lanius growled, “but Lucius has kept you in the dark. He hasn’t told you, has he? Did he make you come here? No-- he didn’t. He is too much a coward.”

Vulpes cocked his head.

The Legate took in a deep breath. Blood was running from his ear. “If you kill me now, you’ll die without honor. This is a woman’s way to take my life. You could never defeat me in combat-- not even him. And you’ll never know.”

Bonesplitter had no idea what would happen next.

“Never know what,” Vulpes said with precision in every word.

“Decimus is alive. They have seen him.”

Only now did the fox hesitate. “You lie,” he said.

“He has betrayed us as I knew he would. He betrayed us to the Bear. Dead Sea saw his face, saw him fight. Before he died he swore it was Decimus who took back the camp. Him and a First Recon Man. The one they talk about.”

Fox gripped his left hand tighter. “A precious little story,” he replied, yet now the cold voice wavered. “Personally, my favorite is the one where his raggedy ghost challenged a scout to a tequila drinking contest.”

“The dog is with him,” Lanius growled. “His dog.”

Fox stood stock still. Bonesplitter felt sweat trickling down his shoulderblades. His body hurt, itched, burned.

Sound began to return to the camp. Moaning, groaning. The screeching and wailing of the priestesses. A shrill voice cried out.

The sibyl had survived.

For the first time Fox looked confused, uncertain. He looked mortal. A beautiful and clever young man who had not thought of everything. He hesitated.

Bonesplitter realized they might live yet. The Legate’s words were puzzling, but then there were always stories, rumors, sightings. Camp boredom.

Yet now curiosity was the greatest weapon against the fox; it was the only one that could make him bleed.

“He Walks Away Alone has outwitted you,” Lanius continued. “They won’t find his skull in the desert. Not while it sits still on his shoulders. Their scheme is their own, but they won’t make him Caesar when they discover what he has done. Decimus gave in to his true nature. You go and find him. You bring him a message for me.”

Fox looked like as though he didn’t even draw a breath. It was working. Whatever Lanius was telling to him, it was working.

A line of bloody drool ran out of the Legate’s mouth. His naked gums and teeth flashed in anger. “If he stands as the Bear's champion, so be it. You tell him I will fight him on the Dam. You go and you tell him. You bring him that message. _I will fight him on the Dam!_ ”

Then Vulpes Inculta lowered his left hand. “As you wish, Legate," he whispered. "I will tell him you said so.”


	21. Chapter 21

The one called Dragon’s Tooth was still alive, still conscious. Blood welled from his eye socket. The taking of his eye was a mortal insult against First Recon and his choice to stand with them; if he lived, the dead eye would rob him of his aim.  
  
If he lived. There was no telling what the khans would do.  
  
Karl worked slowly at his binds. It had been two hours since someone had come to check on him. It would be a lethal mistake to call their attention to him now. Not in this frenzy of revenge.  
  
The big redhead was down again. Maybe down for good. They were kicking him in the ribs, and he wouldn’t fight back. He was in a slow, reactive state, trying to roll on his side, breathing hard, with a bloody slaver on his chin.  
  
Karl thought he heard it before he saw it, but something low and dark raced out of the shadows at the edge of the camp.  
  
The dog lunged and snapped and leapt to put its metal body between the redhead and his attackers. It was no normal dog; Karl had seen it before, and feared.  
  
The priestesses proclaimed that as the year died and the nights grew long, the barriers between the worlds were weakened. On the Long Night, the dead walked, and the days to come were foretold. Now Karl knew it to be true.  
  
He had been a new warrior in the stands that day, watching the battle between Decimus and Lanius, the battle between the Hell Hounds and the Centaurs. He had seen the metal dog leap down to the sands in love and defense of its master. He had seen it die.  
  
And he had seen it loping through the camp in the days after Decimus was said to be dead. They saw it come through the garrison with dirt matted in its fur, with a red light glowing in its eyes. It was looking for its master.  
  
And it had stopped before the throne and let out a mournful howl. It had dug itself out of the grave and the power of death could not hold it—not then, not now.  
  
Karl knew that the Long Night was soon upon them, a night’s fall away, and already the dead were blurring back into the world. Karl feared. They all feared, even these foolish khans that did not know and could not understand what was now happening.  
  
Cerberus snarled and its optics blazed red. It would not allow any of them to come close to the Recon man, snapping and jumping, with great strings of saliva strung between its upper and lower teeth.  
  
Then came a loud harsh sound like radio static came on and a hovering metal eye swept up out of darkness.  
  
A cattleman’s whip cracked.

  
... 

No word came from the Legate’s camp and mischief ruled in the silence. The Fort swarmed with nervous activity, a kind that was both parts panic and elation. Some men were still found in dancers’ masks and festival raiments, where others were barked at by their decani to make their armor ready.  
  
The priestesses wailed, and Tiberia for all her portents had nothing to say.  
  
A young blood in the Satyrs stood on a table in the mess and yelled for retribution. It was surely the coming of the Bear to attack them in holy Brumalia! We must send a patrol at once!  
  
“Pipe down,” growled old Gemellus of the Lions. “We don’t know for certain, and only a fool would leave high ground.”  
  
Ahala of the Scorpions crossed his arms, leaning against a post as he listened in on the men. “Surely the mighty Legate needs no help of ours,” he told his optio. “After all, is he not seven feet tall and invulnerable to mortal weaponry?”  
  
The optio smirked. “I have heard he shits gunpowder.”  
  
“That would explain all the explosions,” Ahala replied. He leaned away and led his optio back to the set of tents with the scorpion banner. “What are the men saying?”  
  
“They say nothing,” the optio answered. “But many knew the ten soldiers that the Legate killed on his way out of Flagstaff. They were good men, and it was a waste to kill them. Example or no.”  
  
A slight pause, and then Ahala asked: “Where is our Pavo?”

...

Lucius stood before a dead radio, his back to a dying leader, and there was no word from either of them. The communications had been disabled. All that was known to him were the chain of explosions in the night and the weird sad look in Fox’s eye.  
  
“I don’t know what he was going to do, or how,” Siri said in a low voice that shook. “I only knew he was going to kill himself. He felt it was time.” She took in a breath. “Please—we have to control the bleeding. She needs me now.”  
  
Sextus was there with her, the body of the woman curled in on itself on the packed dirt floor of the tents.  
  
Lucius reeled. Too much was happening now.. Caesar, Esperanza.. now the Legate’s camp.  
  
Priscus was the first to bring news to the camp. He led the exhausted band of praetorians out of the east, their bodies marked with blood and bruises.  
  
“It was Vulpes Inculta,” Priscus told Lucius as he drank a bowl of water with both hands. “He was all in black.. we couldn’t see him. He must have.. he set explosives all around the camp. Then he went through shooting the decani in the confusion. He was rigged to detonate himself.. he went right to the Legate.”  
  
Herennius and Ignatius both exchanged a look.  
  
“Is he.. ?” Lucius ventured.  
  
“The legate lives,” Priscus replied. “He’s injured, but he lives. He killed many of us in punishment for failing to protect the encampment. We are all that escaped. If he can muster his men, they’re coming here.”  
  
He hung his head, and he set the bowl aside. “Please, Lucius, you must understand.. we’re not cowards. We didn’t abandon our post. The legate.. the camp he keeps there.. the things we’ve seen. They live like animals. They eat human flesh.”  
  
Lucius said nothing. What was there to say when he knew that it was true? What was he to say?  
  
Priscus opened his mouth as though to speak again, thought against it, and found his shaken courage after all. In a nervous voice he blurted out, “If it’s true that Decimus is alive, you must make him Legate instead. He has to come back.”  
  
The name blanched him. He thought himself numb with all that had happened, yet that name. That damned name. “What? What are you talking about?”  
  
“Lanius told Vulpes that Decimus was alive. That he’s been alive all this time. That he lives in the Mojave somewhere. Vulpes left-- he didn’t kill himself and the Legate. I don’t know if it was a ploy to keep him from detonating himself, but it would make sense. It would make sense. There’s been too many stories.. too many sightings. It can’t all be rumors and wishes.. “  
  
Lucius shut his eyes. Too much was happening. The soldier in him hardened, focused. First thing’s first—the closest target. “You said the Legate was on his way here?”  
  
“He’s injured. Many of his officers are dead. If he can muster them.. he’ll march on the Fort. I don’t know more. We had to escape. We-- we’ll stand with you, Lucius. All you have to do is stand against him.”  
  
“You’re dismissed. Rest and be ready.”  
  
Lucius stood, and Herennius went to him. “What do we do, then? Bar the gates? Call the centurions together?”  
  
“As Legate he is second in command of the Legion,” Lucius replied. “He.. he may come and go as he chooses.”  
  
“Lucius. Honestly-- he’ll kill you.”  
  
“I.. I must see what he wants, first.”  
  
Part of Lucius hoped the Legate succumbed to his injuries. He could not shake the feeling of shame. It burdened on the overwhelming. Caesar’s ignoble collapse. Esperanza tied like an animal. Sextus had lost all respect for him. He could see that in the young man’s eyes.  
  
“Do you think it’s true, then? All the rumors about Decimus? Everyone who says they saw him?”  
  
“I think some see what they want to see,” Lucius said, carefully. “And there have always been rumors-- the Hounds themselves said they found his skull.”  
  
“Some hear what they want to hear,” Herennius replied. Their eyes met and held for a moment, and then Herennius thumped his chest in a salute and walked away.

...

“News from the east, domine,” came the muffled voice of a legionary scout. Lucius knew him even before he removed the wrap and helmet.  
  
“Fox,” he hissed. “What did you do!”  
  
“I stole Christmas.” The young man’s eyes were dark and intense. “Lucius, I am afraid you have withheld crucial information from me.”  
  
“He’s dead! He’s dead and they found his body!”  
  
“I assume you’ve heard already then,” Fox replied. “It will only be a matter of time before rumor sweeps through the camp. Lucius. As a professional courtesy I must tell you that this is a grievous error on your part and that I should not have been last to know.”  
  
“And what is it that you think you know now? Am I to tell you every rumor, every prattling gossip? The talk of the washer-women? Stories told round the campfire by young boys and old soldiers?”  
  
“You hadn’t told me he was _executed_ , that he was _dishonored_.”  
  
“He was. He’s dead. This is dangerous talk and already the situation is spiraling out of control.”  
  
“Then you had best control it, Lucius.”  
  
“I won’t have you talk that way to me.”  
  
“Perhaps it is wrong to blame you. Your entire role is to preserve stability.” Fox’s eyes cut to the side. “And mine, to provide our lord with information.”  
  
“He—he’s fallen. He had a seizure and he won’t wake.”  
  
But from the look in Fox’s eye, Lucius could tell his thoughts were miles further. “If you know anything more about Marcus, you must tell me now.” His piercing gaze returned. “Lucius.”  
  
“There were rumors. Always rumors. When Cerberus dug himself out of the ground, there were some who said the beast was his familiar.. that if Cerberus lived, he lived also. There were always stories. You know how he’d always cheat death. He—he has become a legend. That’s all. People telling tales. Stories round the campfire.”  
  
“They say he has been seen.”  
  
“Men see what they want! There were always stories. His golden armor seen in a battle against raiders. Someone said they saw him selling water at a caravan stand. Someone else said his howling apparition threw a lion cub on the altar in Sedona. A falling star. Fountains of blood. It’s all nonsense.”  
  
“I wish to hear about the tequila contest and the god Apollo. Was he wearing glasses?”  
  
“Fox. We are closest to civil war as we have ever been. Caesar may not wake again, and the Legate marches on the Fort.”  
  
“Never mind.. I know it to be true. I feel it. And I have seen the dog.. it roams through Freeside. Part of me knew I wouldn’t die here, not now.. when there are loose threads like these.” His eyes shut tightly and then opened. “He Walks Away Alone has outsmarted me, I fear. I sent him north to deal with Graham. It appears now that he has ventured beyond his mission to join the Hell Hounds, and what happened there, I do not know. We must be ready for anything. We must operate as though they know.”  
  
They often spoke of life as a tapestry, with so many threads woven together. Now Lucius saw the glimmering of threads as loose strings joined and strengthened in a pattern he had not foreseen. “ _If_ he is alive.. I do not know we can trust him. He wouldn’t be the man he was before. Torture, betrayal, execution.. he was crucified.”  
  
“The courier they talk about.. he is not so old as he first seemed. A man in his forties who walks with a limp. His hands are ruined. I do not know how well he could hold a weapon, but did he not overrun the forces at Nelson? Has he not laid waste to the Van Graffs, Crimson Caravan, and the fiends of the Mojave?”  
  
“With the help of a First Recon sniper, if the stories are true. Fox. He may have gone over to the NCR as we originally feared.. “  
  
“No. No—he would have to return.” An anxious smile swept over Fox’s face, manic, almost.  
  
Lucius thought of Esperanza, violated, possibly dying. The woman that Siri fought to save in Caesar’s tents. “You know better,” he whispered darkly.  
  
“We are his people. He must help us. He must become the rightful legate and protect our capital while we rebuild our forces. We must burn out the sickness and insanity that Fleshcutter has brought upon us.”  
  
“And then what?”  
  
“The gods will show us our successor. We must trust in them.”

Lucius thought of the woman on the ground beyond the tent walls, the woman they tied like an animal. The wounded army mustering itself to march upon them. “More likely that Fleshcutter bought time with a lie you wished to hear.” A pause. “Lanius.” He hadn’t meant to say that name.  
  
“I have considered that.. but there is too much against it. I see it clearly now. Lucius, I’m afraid the pressure from the initial blasts did not kill him.. but I suspect he is injured. He favors his left side. There may be damage to his ear. There appeared to be an issue with balance, so you should gain on that—“  
  
“Fox,” he said. “This is madness and treason.”  
  
“Yet also necessary, and sanctioned by the gods. I feel them.” His eyes focused. “I must take Siri with me. Whatever happens with our lord, they will find fault with her and kill her.”  
  
“You most certainly will not. You will go alone.”  
  
“There is nothing she can do for him. It is.. in the hands of the gods now.”  
  
Lucius growled, “No—enough. You will go, and you are fortunate I don’t kill you where you stand. It is as you deserve.”  
  
Fox made to protest, but even in his excitement he seemed to sense he had gone too far. It was well within Lucius’ power to kill him, and by all rights he should.. but there it was. That alluring notion that Fleshcutter could be defeated. Such a distant, promising idea.. but what to do?  
  
“I have no choice but to strip you of your title and your office, and all the benefits and privileges it affords. You have no rank. You are banished. Until this is settled—if you are found you will be killed.”  
  
Fox went down on his knee. “Chief of the praetorians, I accept this punishment. I am guilty of conspiring the murder of the unworthy Legate Fleshcutter, the most wretched and disgusting of the Hidebark remnants. I acted alone but for the provenance of the gods, may the Twelve guide and love me, and keep our people. I swear to find the centurion Decimus and return him to Arizona.”  
  
Lucius put his face in his hands. Then his eyes were hard. “ _If it's true.. he will only listen to you _.”__

... _  
_

They took over the khan camp pretty quick-like, if y’all wanted an attaboy for scaring the shit out of a bunch of old and sick people. Hell there was some khan warriors in the mix, to use the term loosely, but they looked like they needed a lot less gut and a bunch more firepower. Veronica stomped them pretty good, and Cass started yelling her head off, get on the fucking ground and ED-E was all laser beams and loud cowboy soundin music. Ol Rex all teeth and glowing red eyes. Cass didn’t know she ever saw the courier so mad-- with most things he just laughed it off or thought about them real quiet before he put a hand on your shoulder and made you homesick for a daddy you never knew.  
  
He walked in with that whip looped in his hand, and sure nough, one of the younger type teenage khans jumped out to make his stand. Well he got a red line on his face faster than anything, and it felt like you heard the whip a second after.  
  
There’s always one.  
  
The courier yelled out, “Who speaks for this camp?”  
  
An old woman lifted her head. “I do.”  
  
“I came for two of mine.” Now he didn’t like Manny all that much, but all that aside.  
  
“They gave themselves up freely for our judgment.”  
  
“You call this judgment?"  
  
Manny was still breathing. Good Christ, they burnt out one of his eyes. The whole thing was a purple welt with juice running down. Manny’s tracker boyfriend looked aghast; he was the one who led them all up there. He gave Manny a shake, watching him come to.  
  
Boone was pressing his face into Rex’s shoulder. That dog was a wall of teeth and fur sticking up. Red eyes glowing. Jesus Christ, Cass wouldn’t have touched that dog for a million dollars.  
  
Marco came in to look at him them. Manny first. The khan sniper gasped when Arcade took his jaw in his hand.  
  
“Think I got something in my eye,” joked Vargas in a weak voice.  
  
“I think you've lost that eye, Manny,” Arcade said, “I’ll do what I can for it, but you’ll be all right otherwise. It's over.”  
  
“Shit, I don’t care. Losing an eye will even the odds. Make it fair. Still the best sniper.” He gave Boone a squeeze on the shoulder. “S’alright man, we came here for this. It’s—the khan way.”  
  
Even though he looked like he was hardly hanging on, Boone looked deeply ashamed of himself. He let Manny get hurt like that.  
  
Marco came in close to look at him, like an old dog coming to help his puppy.


	22. Chapter 22

Marco had a way of picking you up when you were down. He’d done it for her, back when she lost all her men and all her teams, when Cassidy Caravans burned down to nothing but her daddy’s name. She might have drank herself to death if such a thing was possible. Yeah, there she was, wasting away in that pissant trading post when Marco walked in and took the bottle out of her hand.

Well that was his first mistake. Anyhow she didn’t rightly recall that episode or much of what happened there, except she found herself drying out in the company of an extremely patient Mexican gentleman with a big ol puffy black eye. 

She’d met him before, as it happened, back in what he told her were the “bad days” of his. He had gone by a few different names at that point, and really the only thing that kept him in memory was his unlikely knack for survival. Every time she saw that run-down and beat-up old fella limping along, she would have thought it the last. He’d worn his hair long and his beard full and bushy, and you would have thought him decades older than he was. Those bent and bandaged hands would have passed for some kind of arthritis. 

She hardly recognized him when they crossed paths at the Outpost. He looked so different. Same smile, same gray eyes, but he cleaned up good. Damn good. He’d reached on over and touched her arm with fingerless gloves. His hand trembled slightly. She’d looked deep into them soulful eyes, knew he had a past, he was talking to her in that soft deep voice meant just for you, and she’d a fallen in love with him heart-attack serious right then and there if it weren’t for the prime fact of life that ol Marco was a fulla shit lyin son of a bitch. 

Didn’t take her all that long to figure out there was more to it. Gannon gave it away. Couldn’t lie for shit, and he was paranoid as hell about any questions. He hid Marco’s secret like a crazy red hen squawkin and checkin her egg was still under her. Now, Marco wasn’t the first desert ranger she ran across, sure wasn’t the last, and she knew they all had clawed their way out of tough times and every one of them had a sad story. 

All the signs were there for Marco. Knew the Legion like the back of his hand. Hated Ed Sallow like you wouldn’t believe. That robot dog belonged to him, the one the NCR took in the war. A military man but not NCR. He had some kind of a past with Raul Tejada, not good, and she’d heard how the Ghost Vaquero fought in the last horrifying nights at the siege of Yuma, when the legendary Hell Hound burned the city to the ground. They must have strung him up and left him for dead, and taken his dog, too. Shit if that weren’t the insult of all. You don’t take a man’s dog.

He’d been patient with her when she was getting back on her feet. Real patient. Kind. You didn’t find folks like that. Even though he made his intentions real clear—fifty fifty, all business—she had no doubt he really wanted her to succeed, he really wanted her back up and happy. As for what he was going to do, he just smiled and said he was gonna kill Caesar, like that was that. The rest of his lil team just seemed to take it in stride, like of course he was, and Cass just arched up one eyebrow and wellll, if you say so.. 

Sounded like crazy talk, to be honest, but Marco had a way of getting things to work. Getting people together. Made you believe you could be part of something greater. You did something right and he’d love on you like a proud daddy; you did wrong, and that look of disappointment would send you crawling off like a wounded snake, til you realized god damn it, you were a grown ass woman. 

She watched him now, heart in her throat. Craig was like one of his men, back in the old days. Craig was more than that, a lost soul, a son. Marco tried hard not to play favorites, not even with Gannon, but he would do anything for Boone to make it all right. She knew the look on his face now; she felt it too, but she wouldn’t show it to these people. She kept her face hard, but inside she screamed: Damn it Boone! I thought things were going good! What more do you want!

...

Didn’t take much to get the camp in order. What had been a hostile and vengeful mob was once more the frightened and miserable lot of people they’d always been, suffering up here on Coyote Tail Ridge. Sour water, blowing dust, hard terrain, it sure wasn’t the best place to make camp and hold tight, but Cass understood why they wouldn’t want to move on. The Arroyo part of her knew and understood. Lots of gone-wild folks had their reasons for leaving the Vaults for the desert, and some of them believed the spirits took you the places you were meant to go. 

Now Cass kind of thought that was bullshit most the time, but she still got it.

Wise woman looked to be in charge. Tough-looking woman with a face like a shovel, middle-aged, hair shaved on the sides. Her bony bare arms crossed over her leather biker vest. Two or three of the warriors looked like they might be sons of hers, same thin lipped face. It was calming down now and Cass made it known they didn’t want to hurt nobody, just came here for the two of theirs.

Christ, Manny was all fucked up. She wouldn’t have taken him for so calm, but he sat tight, blood running out of his eye socket, like it was just any old thing. 

Doc went to help him first. He shouldered off his pack and coat, motioning for Two Devils to bring Manny into the shade. Vargas pushed his arm away lightly, like hey man, I got this, I can walk on my own. Turned out he couldn’t so well, but he still got there.

“I’ll need to clean your eye,” Arcade told him. “I won’t lie to you.. this is going to hurt. I can give you an injection, though.”

“Man, whatever,” Vargas said. “Fair is fair. I’ll take it. This is the khan way.”

Two Devils crouched nearby. Kind of a quiet guy from what Cass knew of him, a tracker, who was easy enough to get along with back in Novac. He’d known Manny and Craig for years and years now. He was a khan scout from back west, from one of the sub-gangs who hadn’t gone too far from the Vault when their forebears parted ways with the folk who formed the NCR. He had twisty designs painted on his skin in clay slurry, its color the same rust-red pigment that he used to dye his mohawk. His face betrayed nothing; the khans were a tough lot, and if Manny came here out of free will, he would understand. 

Wise woman went back in her tent, a dramatic tent flap swish when she did. Cass didn’t think they would attack now. The window had passed. ED-E and Raul still walked the perimeter, probably making sure nobody was coming back to the camp for an ambush.

The flow of adrenalin fell away, and in its place, Cassidy felt a raw anger. She didn’t trust herself to talk to Craig just now. She knew from his face what this was all about. She wouldn’t look at him anymore just yet, let Marco sit with him and give him water from a canteen. She was half a mind to pour the damn thing over his head. 

She heard the weary shuffle of Raul’s boots before he spoke to her. “Night coming soon,” he said. “It’s going to be difficult to move two injured men down the switchbacks in the dark.”

“Don’t know yet what we’re doing,” Cass muttered.

“ED-E can light the way, of course,” Raul pointed out. “But that’s a good way to call attention.. “

Cass was just irritated, and when she turned round to look at him, he shrugged and added, “Up to you and the boss.”

“Don’t think it is. Think it’s Boone.”

Raul shook his head as if to say, you said it not me.

…

When Boone drank enough to wash the blood and grit from his mouth, he croaked, “We came here to make things right.” 

Cass stood back so she wouldn’t loom over him, and she held her tongue for the time being. You shouldn’t kick a man when he was down, no matter how much she wanted to. Didn’t know where Marco found that great reserve of patience, but he crouched with Boone in the dust like he had all the time in the world.

“What did they say to that?” Marco asked. 

“Didn’t say much at all.” 

Marco nodded. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked. “You wanted them to hurt you?”

Craig shut his eyes, and if they puffed up any more than that, they would probably shut themselves. “It’s their way,” he said, slowly.

“From where we stood, it didn’t look like they were going to stop.” 

Boone said nothing, and Cass steeled herself against the look that crossed his face. Marco waited for the sniper to arrive at what he wanted to say. His eyes lifted momentarily to meet Cassidy’s gaze. He kept a lid on it, but Cass could tell he was deeply upset. He cared for Craig like his own son and tried his best to get Boone back on his feet. Cass heard that before Boone joined up with him and Arcade, he wasted away in that flyblown town up in some decrepit sniper’s nest.

“Been having dreams,” said Boone after awhile. “Had to come back. If I’m going to move on and make something out of what I got left.. I have to come back here and face this. Face them.”

“I can respect that,” Marco told him, “you’ve always wanted to do right. But what will this accomplish?” 

Boone didn’t have an answer he could put to words. “Don’t know,” he croaked. “Find out, maybe.”

From the thoughtful look on his face, the courier didn’t seem to find that answer as stupid as it sounded. He just nodded like he always did, like he always understood. Like you mattered. “I think I understand,” he replied after awhile. His eyes swept over the vista. “Some of the tribes believe the solstice is a sacred time. Two Devils said the khans are one of them. What better time for you to settle this, then?” 

Craig wet his lips. “There’s a ritual,” he said, and trailed off.

“There’s a chance they won’t give you what you’re looking for.”

“Know that.”

“By coming here, you made yourself a target for their hatred.”

“Know that too.”

Marco reached over and laid a gloved hand on his shoulder, and then he got up, with a slight groan from old injuries. “Need to talk to Arcade,” he said to Cass quiet in passing. His raised brows added on an ‘and you.’ He left them. 

Craig held his head away from the glare of the sun. The swelling of his eye did nothing to hide the guilt of his expression.

“I’m not one to kick a man when he’s down,” Cass said when they were alone, “but I was always straight and even with you. You know that makin’ things right.. that’s for you to decide, not them. They weren’t without blame in Bitter Springs-- women and kids wouldn’t get shot if they hadn’t shoved them out front. And don’t forget they tortured and killed NCR men-- if they hadn’t a done that, NCR patrol could have cared less what they did up in these hills.”

“You weren’t there.”

“No I wasn’t, and I’m not taking that from you, Craig. I am not judging you. I don’t want you thinking you owe your life’s meaning to these people and that they hold your future in their hands-- that’s bullshit and it ain’t fair.”

“Had to come here. Been seeing it in dreams. If anything’s going to be right again.. I just needed to come here.”

“They’ll humiliate you and kill you. That’s what they’d do.”

He didn’t say anything just yet, just breathed. It was a painful sound, and she knew it had to feel like a lungful of knives every time he took a breath inward. Hell, he’d just gotten over two sustained rib injuries in the last several months. She figured it wasn’t going to help if she stood over him and talked down at him like a schoolmarm. 

“Maybe it’s what I deserve,” he croaked.

Her boots gritted as she got down on her knees by his side. She touched him gingerly at first, trying to get a better look at his battered face. Real gentle she ghosted her hands over the thin buzz of his hair, and then she placed a kiss on his forehead. “If you start talkin like that I’m going to wring your neck,” she whispered to him. “What they done to you is gonna look like a game of patty-cake.”

“Heh.”

His disappearance surprised her at first, but then she realized it was always in him to do something like this. She felt it in her bones, a dread she hadn’t known for years.

“Fuck’s sake,” she sighed. “Lot of people think real high of you, Sergeant Boone. NCR boys look up to you, and settlers out here sure are glad when you come walking through. You’ve saved so many lives here.” 

He stroked her arm. His hand moved so weakly. “I have to do this.”

She ran her hands over his head again; he always seemed to like that. “You die,” she added, “I’ll kill ya.” 

Cass let him be for right then. 

Gannon and Marco were locked in a quiet rush of a conversation. Doc’s eyes flashed behind his glasses and you could tell their fight was gonna get ugly. It was going on all in Spanish and it looked like Arcade got the last word in edgewise, ‘cause they both shut up when she came into earshot. 

“Well gentlemen,” she said, “I see we’re all havin ourselves a merry little Christmas.”

Marco broke away from Gannon. “He wants the ritual,” he said. “They both want it, and I think it’s best. We’ll discuss the terms between us, and then we’ll bring them to the wise woman. Arcade can perform part of the rite.” He spoke to her in English, clear and direct.

Arcade had a face full of what-the-hell, and he sure looked mad. 

“Take it you don’t agree, doc?” 

“Uhh, well, let’s look at this here. You want a man to get tortured by his enemies so he can feel better about himself.”

Now Arcade was well and right, and you could tell it was trying Marco’s patience. “No,” the courier replied, “they’re not going to touch him. They’ll preside over it. You’re a doctor, it’s a controlled environment.. ”

“Oh, so, right, I’ll torture Craig on Christmas Eve. Uh, why can’t we have him talk to Dr Yusanagi like I suggested?” 

Cass shook her head. “Hell, I told him that, I told him when Betsy’d gone. He didn’t want to, the stubborn ass.” 

Marco raised his arm to type on his Pip Boy. His gloves mashed on the pad, but it worked well enough. ED-E turned mid-air at the end of camp, and it flew back with whiskers held close to its body.

“So an honest counseling is right out, then,” Gannon pressed. “Straight to torture?”

She could see Marco starting to get irritated. He did that thing where he wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve. “No torture. No killing. They wanted to come here, and here they are. This is a matter of honor.”

Cass weighed it. “I don’t want to take sides here,” she said with a sigh. “You’re both right, in a way. We tried everything else for him. I didn’t set out wanting to fix him, cause I knew better, but it might have snuck up on me too.”

“I just don’t like that he thinks it’s really a rational decision to let a bunch of murderous tribals make major life choices for him, you know?” 

“We could flip a coin or something.” Cassidy shrugged. “What’s Raul say?”

“He said that no one can really know someone else,” Gannon replied. “Only you can know yourself, or try to.”

“Call it spirits, gods, fate, closure,” Marco said. “Craig knew he had to come here. Manny had to face judgment for what he did. If they both feel this makes it right.. then I stand by them. I won’t let the camp do anything more to hurt them. I forbid it.”

Cass shook her head. “Fine. If it’s what he wants.. if they think it’ll make it better. Hell.”

Arcade heaved a sigh. “Am I the lone voice of reason on this one?” he asked as he removed his glasses, rubbing the back of his hand against his eye.

Marco frowned at him. Normally, Cass took a real joy in watching them fight, that was some prime entertainment right there, but she didn’t like this. Both sides had a point, but no one was right. Maybe there wasn’t a way out for Craig, maybe he tried everything and had nothing left. Would they have killed him here? Was that what he really wanted, but didn’t know how to ask?

Veronica let on that Boone tried to kill himself before. A solo strike on Cottonwood Cove..

“Reason or not,” Cass said, “I don’t see a good solution to any of this. No matter what we think, it comes down to Craig and Manny, don’t it?”

Arcade set his glasses back on. “If this is what he really wants. Fine. All right, fine. I’ll do it, then. I’m a doctor, at least. I have the final say on whether this goes through or not. I want to evaluate his condition in the morning.”

Marco nodded. “Of course,” he said, with a small measure of relief. “I won’t let him get himself killed.”

“Let me talk to Craig and make sure he understands what I’m going to do.”

…

The wise-woman waited in her scratchy tent, surrounded by children with dirty faces. She was a woman of maybe fifty years, blurred tattoos on her arms, her hair shaved on the sides and bleached on the top. Her face was tough and bitter. There was a resemblance in the two men nearby, the sullen-looking warriors in their biker leathers.

The skin of an enormous rattlesnake hung from the wall. Strings of dried peppers and a bundle of shriveled birds’ feet decorated the circular tent. The smell was leathery and rank.

“In these days the barrier between the worlds is thinning,” the woman told them. “By tomorrow night, the dead will walk.”

“Sergeant Boone was called here by his dreams,” Marco told her. “He came here willingly, and Dragon’s Tooth also. Not many men would face their past like that.”

The wise woman notched her chin. “How good for us to make them feel better for themselves,” she said, and her words stung Cassidy. “That is all that matters here, isn’t it?”

Stung partly cause she knew there was truth somewhere in the sarcasm. Maybe. Boone had something wrong with him, something deeper than she ever thought, and he was looking—hoping—searching everywhere for something to make it right. She was watching some horrible drama play out, and she didn’t like it.

“Fuck y’all, then,” Cass snapped. “You can sit and bitch on your mountain, but I remember who started this shit. Your folks snatched up some dumbass kids and tortured them, and then you go and play victim when the NCR came to get them back. I am so damn tired of this. Go look at your dumb biker granny self in the mirror and tell me you couldn’ta done different.”

That riled them up, but Marco kept his calm, even as it looked like the henchmen were getting all huffy. Then again, you could see two glowing red orbs against the side of the yurt, and Cass knew that dog could go through tent like a piece of paper.

“Maybe Jessup didn’t tell you how Boone saved his life,” said the courier after a moment. “Back in Boulder City, Jessup and his boys got trapped in a standoff with the NCR. They had a few hostages. It could have gone poorly, but everybody walked away without harm.”

The wise woman frowned. One of the others said something quietly to another. 

“What I want is this. I want you to give Craig a chance to join your observance tomorrow. He wants a way forward, and he believes the spirits called him here. I believe that also. I want you to watch over his rite.”

“This isn’t a good time for him to come here,” the wise woman told him.

“Isn’t it?”

She tapped her lip ring slowly, in thought. “We are going to offer the Legion man,” she said. “You won’t interfere.”

“I would say Mr Karl walked into this one. You don’t mind, I’d like to talk to him later, but we can discuss that at another time. You say yes, then, to the ritual?”

“He’ll have to take the drink.”

Marco frowned. “We can talk about that,” he said. “We’ll see what our doctor has to say.”

“The drink opens the way. It won’t work.” 

“Anything he drinks, you drink also. I think you understand my meaning.” Marco smiled thinly. “And that’s another thing. Our doctor cuts him, not you.” 

The wise woman raised an eyebrow. “Does he know how?”

“He’ll learn. Manny knows.”

“He’ll have the day to learn,” the wise woman said. “It will happen at nightfall.”

“An hour at nightfall,” Marco agreed. “And only an hour.”

Cassidy pressed in. “And you won’t kill him. He comes through this alive.”

The khan woman shrugged. “We don’t know the ways of the spirit world.”

“I can tell you right now,” Cass told her, “you won’t like if I won’t like what happens.”

…

They worked together without words to set up their own section of the camp. Cass felt like a big chunk got taken out of her… whole day runnin around in the heat, hiking up the switchbacks, not knowing what they were gonna see at the top of the mountain. Boone strung open, wearin his guts like an apron. Boone’s big dumb head spitted on a pole. Part of her was afraid to find him not yet dead but not living either, maybe right on the edge, begging to die. She saw a man gored real bad by an ox one time. How he whimpered. She didn’t think Boone had illusions about death, being a man who killed, but what if he realized death wouldn’t solve his problems? What if it wasn’t a way out? What if he rattled out some last breath of regret. 

Veronica sat with him now, helping him wash his face and head with a wet handful of rags. She held his head steady with a hand at the top of his skull. Her other hand washed his face. Any other time, she would have grabbed him in a headlock or stolen his sunglasses, any one of those countless bratty sister things she did. Cass found some sick part of her wanting to clean him up and stroke his head, but you couldn’t away his pain, and you’d go crazy trying. You had to kick sand in his face to make him stand on his own.

Tough love, she always thought. Still. Her heart gnawed on itself when she thought on it all. Gannon was probably right. Maybe none of this was going to help. Indulging this sickness of his. 

Marco looked miles away. He had shrugged off his long coat and stood there with it hanging on the crook of his arm, like even the smallest task was trying his will. Arcade squeezed his shoulder, and Marco came back to the present, smiled wearily, and they shared a quick kiss. 

Manny and Two Devils were sharing a smoke. If she hadn’t known Manny like she did, the scratchy-voiced joking from their corner of the camp would have surprised him. Some tough-guy talk over there. 

Dinner was a tense meal of dry rations around a cluster of fire pits. The khans kept to their own side, suspicious and watchful. One of the children attempted to totter over to their side in a bid for something more to eat, but his mother snatched him away and brought him back squealing to the others.

Cassidy passed round a bottle. She put a brave face on all this, but she wouldn’t meet Arcade’s eye. 

If they sat down together as a group for mealtimes, Marco usually had a few things to say. He had a way of keeping everyone positive and feeling appreciated. His mood was distant tonight, and his words were short, as they picked at gecko jerky at soda biscuits.

“Tomorrow night marks a sacred time for some of the wasteland people,” he said. “At dusk, Craig will undergo a ritual that will help him find answers. The khans will watch over it, and Arcade will make it happen. We’re going to suspend him in the air for around an hour’s time, and there are some who believe this brings about an out of body experience. That’s their way. Then we’ll discuss with the khans a way to move forward. This may be difficult for the rest of us to understand, but I respect your decision in coming here, Craig. Manny. I support you, Craig, and I always will. I know what it’s like to wish you could take back something you did. I know the desire to right old wrongs.”

Cassidy sat at the fire long after it turned to embers. ED-E came to inspect her on one of its rounds, hovering close enough for her to hear its soft whirr and clicking sounds. She shooed it away, but it seemed interested in her hand gesture, whiskers splayed out before it came back in. Raul dismissed it as he sidled up, and it annoyed her how readily the robot obeyed him.

“Some Christmas, huh?” he said.

“Think if I ask real nice, the fat man will bring us some fucking closure round here?”

Raul smirked, least, it seemed he was smirking in the thin light. He dropped down beside her like a bag of bones. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

“Being all cryptic and shit. Thank you, Raul.” Cass leaned back, stretching out, watching a boot tip turn sideways. “You know. I been thinking about this whole thing. You think it ever goes away? Is anything ever enough?” 

“I don’t think it does,” Raul answered. “You learn to live with it. Maybe it fades, but it’s always there.” 

“Then life comes back around and hits you again, and you have something new and terrible to worry about.” Cassidy sighed. “I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to fix this. I just see this going bad all kinds of ways and part of me hates Marco right now for just letting this happen.”

Raul turned his head to look at her.

“Like maybe he should have put his foot down. Or maybe I should have. Hell, Gannon had a point, you can’t play into his fantasy like this. Maybe Marco thinks it’ll work because that’s what they did to him, they nailed him up there to die.” 

When Raul said nothing, deep in thought, she grumbled on, “Maybe I should just roll his fat ass down the hill when everybody’s sleepin.”

The old vaquero gave a weary look. “They’re going to do what they’re going to do,” he told her. “There’s too much weight behind it. You have to step out of the way and let things happen. Then be there to pick up the pieces.”


End file.
